And Nothing Else
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: Wrex and Wreav hated each other at first sight. But neither could deny that they had experienced some memorable times together. Since they trained together, each sought to best the other, by any means necessary.
1. Chapter 1

"_Wreav and I share the same mother. And nothing else."  
_-Urdnot Wrex to Commander Shepard, Chieftain of Clan Urdnot, during the Reaper War of 2186

"Again! Harder this time!"

Summoning his last reserves of strength, the young krogan loosed an ululating roar that bounced off the rocky crags of the box canyon and flew up into the ashen skies of Tuchanka. Even as he charged forward, thundering towards his target, he imagined that the spirits of warlords past were sprinting at his side, urging him on to victory. Darumm, Hurjat, Irinak, even reviled Okeer-all of them were his brothers in arms, and he the one worthy to lead them. Using this surge of battle fury, he bunched his fists and plowed into his opponent, who turned just in time to face him.

Who sidestepped, grabbed him by his shoulder hump and thrust him into the dirt, adding a kick to the backside for good measure. The young krogan grunted in surprise and pain as his face collided with the dirt, sending slivers of rock and metal scudding across his face. Already, he felt the birth of tiny cuts and bruises. These he brushed from his mind-a true krogan would not be stopped by little things like that. He picked himself up.

Once again, his father Jarrod glared at him fiercely, hands on hips. "Your strength is still lacking! You could not defeat me, even though I was off-balance. You're far too predictable, son. Learn from these defeats, or I doubt you will achieve what it takes to be a true krogan." He gave a disparaging sniff before turning away to go readjust the practise targets at the other end of the canyon.

Still breathing heavily, the unblooded warrior known as Wrex cast a hateful look at his father's colossal back and muttered a few choice words under his breath. Still, he knew better than to stand around doing nothing and obediently followed, wincing as his face was beset by the howling wind that had somehow managed to infiltrate the canyon. He growled, and pushed his discomfort aside. There would be worse to come, he was sure of it. As his grandfather had told him, before his descent into alcoholism and subsequent death, the galaxy was a nasty place, and Tuchanka wasn't the worst place in it. First nuclear winter, then the rachni, then the Rebellions, then the salarian genophage-they were hardly wanting for trouble in their lives.

None of this mattered now, and Wrex wasn't very interested in ages-old history anyway. Better, far better, to learn how to fight, and die, with honour. Not that he planned on dying soon. No, one day in the far-off future, _Urdnot Wrex _would be a name that resounded from one end of the galaxy to the other. He'd be a living legend among krogan and aliens alike, and the mightiest warrior to ever-

"Wrex, you sack of pyjak shit! Get down here before I carve another notch into your skull!"

And maybe even become an acceptable offspring in the eyes of his malingering old turd of a father. Stranger things had happened on Tuchanka.

He quickened his pace, breaking into a jog across the pitted landscape. Puffs of dust followed in the wake of his steps. These were snatched up by the howling wind, to become another member of the ferocious dust-devils that plagued the planet.

After about a minute, Wrex came to a stop beside his father, who gave him an absent-minded cuff on the head for good measure. He nodded towards the targets set up a short distance away, and thrust a graal spike thrower into his hands. "Start here. Move backwards if you hit all of your marks."

"I won't miss from here, "said Wrex, a little snappier than he'd intended. Not that he was a coward, but his father wasn't one to piss off when they were at training. It was enough to elicit a fierce glare and a low growl. "We'll see." Jarrod turned and leapt atop a boulder to watch his son's progress. "Begin."

Wrex shucked the charging slide of the graal, and sighted along the barrel at his first target. The weapon was notorious for causing a mess, but when charged it was highly accurate, traits that made the firearm prized among hunters of thresher maws. At first, he would've questioned the wisdom of using a shotgun as a training weapon, but past instances had proved the graal was a well-made piece of equipment. Aiming, he squeezed the trigger. Then, after four seconds of hearing the internal mechanisms whine, he released it.

A thermal-driven flechette, as big as a human combat knife, burst out of the gun and flew across the range, striking the target squarely in the head. Without stopping to feel pride (something his father had tried to beat out of and teach him at the same time), he emptied the second barrel and watched another spike fly. Reloading with the clips at his feet, he repeated this task three more times and made the shot every time. An exemplary effort.

Of course, _exemplary _didn't mean shit to Jarrod. With a grunt, he leapt off the rock and inspected his son's handiwork. "Not bad. Now do it again, further this time." He hawked up some orange-coloured phlegm and released it into the wind. Some of it splattered across Wrex's face, and he restrained himself from kicking Jarrod in the quad. Without a word, he stomped back about thirty metres and once again took aim. It would be harder now, as the gale whipped around him and shrieked into his ears. Already, grains of sand and rust had gotten into the twin barrels, and he worked to dislodge it. As he did this, he heard a voice call out.

"Well well well, if it isn't the infamous Urdnot Wrex." A nauseatingly smug sound, which made his teeth grind. Wrex knew who it was almost immediately. Turning around confirmed his suspicions. Urdnot Drachus, a royal pain in the ass and a friend of his father's, grinned at him through chipped teeth and wizened face. The old bastard waved a hand at him in a disgusting display of false modesty. "Please, don't stop on my account. I wish to observe the..._skills_...for which you are so famous."

He wasn't going to get away with that, the cunt. Raising his gun again, he placed his finger on the trigger and began charging it. "You want to see my skills? Last I checked you need eyes to do that." But just as he was about to release, and drive a spike through Drachus' chest, he felt an iron grip on his arm that wrenched him around. Then he felt something strike his forehead, and a blinding white fire erupted in his skull. The pain was overwhelming, but he refused to drop to his knees. He'd sooner have a female set fire to his quad than be humiliated in front of his father _and _Drachus.

When his vision cleared, he saw his father holding a clenched fist under his chin. "Do you want another? No?" When Wrex shook his head fitfully, he grabbed him by the arm again and thrust him back the other way. "Then get your head out of your ass and aim at something useful!" Shoving past, he went to greet his old friend. Slaps on the back ensued, and Drachus murmured something under his breath. His father guffawed and said, "I know, I know, but what else can I do?"

_Try shutting that overused waste chute you call a mouth, for starters. _Wrex planted one foot down for balance, as the graal had a fair kick-back when fully charged. He could feel the eyes of the two older krogan on his back, and shoved down the feelings of anger still swimming around in his head. They were useful for when he was pulverising klixen and rocks, not when he was trying to accurately hit his target. Exhaling into the filthy air, Wrex pulled the trigger.

The rock beneath his feet was not the sturdy surface he was accustomed to. Rather, it was loose shale, which gave way when his graal went off. His arm dropped slightly, and the projectile went wide, just managing to glance off the side of the target. Sure enough, snorts of laughter erupted behind him. Jarrod, the sycophant, was laughing along with his friend at Wrex's mishap. No matter. He would make his next shot. It was a shame, though, he would much rather be firing at Drachus, who deserved nothing less than a gory death-

His mind wandered, and so did his aim. The second shot was better, but it still missed the vital areas, and landed somewhere lower down. This time, Jarrod and Drachus did not even try to conceal their amusement, and their grunting laughter filled the air like the floating shit that it was. Half-turning, he saw his father's crony doubled over with hilarity. "I have a retarded half-son who can aim better than that! This is your legacy, Urdnot Jarrod?" The chuckling continued.

Jarrod's own good humour vanished instantly, and he pointed a finger at Wrex. "Miss again, and you won't like what comes after! You are a disgrace to my name and that of Clan Urdnot!" He knelt to pick up a rock and tossed it at Wrex's head with unerring aim. It bounced off and left a stinging weal where it had struck. Before he could throw anymore, Wrex turned again and faced downrange. Outwardly, he was a picture of calm and restraint.

Inwardly, he was seething with rage. He had been taking the brunt of his father's displeasure for some time now, and he was conditioned to accept it. But to be mocked and jeered by that smug pyjak Drachus, in front of his father no less...that could not go unchallenged. He immediately resolved to teach him a lesson as soon as an opportunity presented itself, his father's rule be damned. The overly-simplistic training was a waste of time anyway-the fact he was doing it alone confirmed that. Urdnot Jarrod had but one son, and that was Wrex. He had been groomed for this role since he was born. As soon as he underwent the Rite, he would be unleashed. Free of his father's shadow, at long last.

He was readying his next shot, when a foul smell washed across his face. He gagged, and the other krogan did the same. Jarrod waved a hand in a vain attempt to dispel the stench, and cursed. "What the fuck is that smell?"

Drachus pointed a finger downrange, his smirk now replaced by a scowl. "I think the targets are playing up again." He began trudging towards them, but not before making a passing remark: "Perhaps if you had fired straighter, we would not be breathing this crap in. Think about it, Wrex." Before Wrex could retort, he had put enough distance between them so the wind masked any sound. Another chance missed.

The targets in question were, in fact, the desiccated remnants of a turian recon team. They'd been caught about a week back, snooping around the Kelphic Valley on some sort of mission. As punishment for having the gall to set foot on Tuchanka, Jarrod had flayed them alive and propped them up as target practise. A few of them were already falling apart, partly due to weaponsfire and partly due to the planet's hellish conditions. But there were still plenty left, around a dozen or so in varying positions of death. One of them had a crude drawing of a turian fellating an elcor scrawled on its chest. Probably drawn by the youths that sometimes snuck into the training canyons to drink ryncol and shoot at each other.

Grimacing, Drachus waved away the flies that had come to feast on the rotting carcasses and reached up to unhook the dead turian's arms from the rough crucifix they'd put together. It was at that moment a particularly fierce gale kicked up, and the corpse fell upon him like a lover looking to embrace. Drachus swore loudly and fought to pull the disgusting thing off him, but the spear-like ribs had managed to hook into his armour, and were stuck fast. The turian's skull grinned at him like a gloating female who had just won an argument. "Fucking turian, get the fuck off me-"

A loud _crack_, and a sizzling spike blew the skull apart, sending bone fragments and brain matter everywhere. Drachus cursed as he tried to mop up the slime on his face, but shrugged off the corpse at last and turned to mock Wrex once again. "Impressive, Wrex! Maybe when you fight a real live turian you'll do as well-"

Unfortunately, Drachus had forgotten that the graal had two barrels, so he did not stop to wonder about the second shot. As it was, by the time he did, the answer was painfully obvious.

The smartass was still sniggering to himself when Wrex pulled the trigger for a second time. The graal boomed, and a spike neatly burrowed into Drachus' throat, stopping him dead. He dropped to his knees, wheezing and gagging on his own blood, and slowly keeled over beside the turian.

Wrex tossed the spent weapon aside, faced his father, and gave a smirk of his own. "Told you I wouldn't miss, father. Besides? I think I just did you a favour. He was a pain in the ass anyway."

Jarrod, not one for clever repartee, stepped forward and crunched a fist into the side of Wrex's head, knocking him out cold. For the second time in less than a minute, a krogan dropped to the ground and lay still. The howling wind was all that could be heard, besides Jarrod's heavy breathing. Rubbing his bruised knuckles (the young one had quite a dense head), he found a nearby boulder and sat, thinking furiously.

This had to be handled carefully. And careful was not his way. On one hand, Drachus had been, as Wrex said, a pain in the ass. Once, perhaps, they had been friends and comrades, but it was undeniable that the bastard had been getting too big for his hump. That jibe at his legacy's prowess was unforgivable. Jarrod had been tempted to kill the bastard himself after hearing that, but clan politics had restrained his wrath. Ironically, his defiant son had solved a major problem for him-he could not have acted himself. Now that Drachus was dead, the matter was closed.

Unfortunately, this meant another matter was opened. Drachus had had friends in Clan Urdnot, powerful ones. Then there were his distant kin in other clans-Jorgal Thurak, Gatatog Kravenk, the list went on. His death would mean serious tremors in krogan society. He couldn't simply let the matter slide-hell, if he could, he would have the most power on this blasted rock. He would have to make a sacrifice of some kind.

His eyes wandered over to Wrex's supine form, and an idea formed in his mind. Suppose he took on one of Drachus' offspring as a protégé? So far, Wrex had been his only son worthy of singular training-though he would never admit the fact to the rebellious little shit. Perhaps it was time he had a fellow warrior to pit himself against in the training...it would only mean more strength for Clan Urdnot in the long run. Wrex would be tougher, his own position would be assured, and this as-yet-unknown krogan youth would be granted a rare opportunity. And Drachus' death would be dismissed-this was Tuchanka, after all. If you weren't dead yet, it was only a matter of time.

He got up, and headed for the other end of the canyon. After a few minutes, he reached a small cave, where what little personal equipment he owned was stored. Rummaging amongst the dusty piles of outdated, salvaged machinery, he extracted an omni-tool and booted it up. This he had confiscated from an STG operative some time ago. The bastard had been part of a team making some sort of krogan census, or some pathetic excuse like that. More likely, they were here for their precious genophage project. Finding even more ways to doom their race to extinction and make the pile of unborn young even higher than it already was-

He stowed away these rising feelings of rage and despair, and focused on the task at hand. Searching through the census data, he found Drachus' file and perused it. He had six sons in all-impressive for a post-genophage krogan. Three were too young, and the other two were already in exclusive training. That left one other to fill the void, and ensure this mess was dealt with.

Jarrod read what data existed, becoming more impressed by the second. The youth had proven himself a capable warrior, skilled in brute force combat and weapon handling. Almost as good as Wrex. Best of all? He was of Urdnot.

His mind made up, Urdnot Jarrod walked out of the cave, mind ticking over at this discovery. "Urdnot Wreav, "he muttered. _Let us hope you can help me, and by extension, yourself. Else this will go badly for you. No, I will not raise a hand against you. I won't have to deliver punishment._

_Wrex will do that himself._

**Greetings once again, my friends. In case you haven't noticed, I've had quite the Mass Effect fanfic addiction lately. This particular idea came to me about a week ago, as I was rewatching the Priority: Tuchanka cutscenes. I really wish there'd been more time to flesh out the relationship between Wrex and Wreav...so here's this, my own reimagining of it :P It should go for roughly four chapters, depending on the content. So please rate 'n' review, and I promise you more in the meantime!**

-OhSoDeadly


	2. Chapter 2

"_What kind of clan chief's son gets removed from singular training? Sounds like a moron to me."  
_-Urdnot Wreav, year 1012 CE

Wrex groaned.

This wasn't the first time he'd had to struggle back into consciousness, but it was the first time that he was doing so on account of his father. He faintly recalled the big bastard's fist slamming into his skull, and feeling the dirt rush up to meet him. Then blissful, black numbness.

Of course, that was _then_ and this was _now._ Now involved a pounding headache, a painfully stinging bruise on the side of his head and a throbbing behind his eyes. There was also a painful itch on his lower right quad, but he wasn't about to mention that to anyone, let alone any of the other "wounds" he was carrying. He'd already racked up seventeen internal injuries in this past year, and twelve of them in the training. Hell, he'd gotten off easily, all things considered.

With that thought, he decided to open his eyes. That alone set the pain in his skull to hideous drumming, but he pushed it down, along with the anguished groan he'd had building up. Expecting the light to singe his retinas, he instead found himself in almost complete darkness, barring a few threads of light on the periphery of his vision. He blinked a few times, then glared about with ruby-red eyes.

Once he realised where he was, he let the groan escape. It was the Harirut cave. Formerly a hospital built by the salarian uplift teams to facilitate krogan welfare, the damn thing had collapsed after one of Tuchanka's many earth tremors. Partly inside a large cliff, its dozens of chambers were now used as a makeshift medical centre for wounded krogan. Of course, when you were a krogan, medical treatment usually came down to a dressing, some painkillers (if you were lucky) and a boot up the ass for your trouble. Given his minor injuries, it was likely that Jarrod had tossed him in here so he wouldn't have to put up with Wrex for a few hours.

Or a few days, if that's how long he'd been out. His father packed quite the punch.

He heard a noise, and turned onto his side with a mighty effort. He was lying on a bunk of some kind, and he could feel some strange dampness just beneath his right leg. Probably left there by the previous occupant. He just prayed it had been a male. Lifting his eyes, he saw a one-legged elder with the mark of a doctor on his crest hobbling around the room. He had some kind of bottle in hand. Clearing his throat, Wrex gave a feeble wave. "Hey. You."

The elder shot him a look, then came closer. As he did so, Wrex realised that the stereotype regarding ugly krogan working in the hospitals wasn't such a stereotype after all. His face looked like the back end of a varren. One of his eyes had a nasty sty in it. "Wut?"

Wrex grimaced. How did someone end up speaking like that? "You mind telling me what's going on? Last time I checked, Harirut cave was for half-dead warriors and the f-"

"Shut yer face." The elder tossed the bottle onto his lap, moved away from the bunk and to another, where another form was huddled beneath a blanket. Probably a youngling with the ket'ach fever; it was rampant in the Urdnot settlements of late. "I ain't yer muther."

"Not asking you to be, you wizened old fart." Wrex lowered his gaze to the bottle he'd been given, and shook it around. It sounded viscous. "What the fuck is this?" he asked, expecting some medical jargon to follow.

"Ryncol."

He stopped, and gave the doctor a deadly stare. "Ryncol."

The doctor turned around and gave him one back. "Yeah, what'd ya expect? This ain't a thresher-damned hospital, don' go countin' wut's writ on the fuckin' walls. Ya take yer swig, maybe two. Three if yer a willow-spined li'l turd. Then ya piss on outta here and pray ya don' see me again. Cuz if ya do, I swear I'll-"

_Some doctor._

To avoid a pointless, semi-literate argument with this moron, Wrex quickly tipped back the noxious brew into his mouth. It tasted foul, but it wet his throat and that was what counted. He drank three brews just to piss the doctor off, then threw his legs onto the ground with a thump. The pain in his head was already lessening. "I won't take up any more of your time, _doctor."_

The krogan in question was still ranting. "-an' yer gonna wish ya'd had one a' the females look after ya, cuz unless yer the son of fuckin' Urdnot Jarrod hisself-"

At that, Wrex had to intervene. "I'm Urdnot Wrex. Case you didn't realise." _One, two, three..._

And right on cue, the realisation and fear stole over the other krogan's face. Taking an involuntary step back, the doctor murmured, "Yer Jarrod's son? Wrex? I heard of ya." Stuffing a hand into his robe, he withdrew a chit from his pocket and threw it over to him. "Hand that in, they'll give ya pers'nal effects back. Sorry 'bout th' trouble." He got out of the room as fast as he could, almost tripping twice. Soon Wrex was alone, barring a few invalids coughing quietly.

The young warrior laughed softly; the bastard hadn't even realised he'd slipped in the Urdnot prefix. _Idiot. _That was just a little taste of what life would be like, once he had attained the rank of a true Urdnot warrior. No longer _the son of Jarrod_, but a name to fear in his own right. Battlemaster Urdnot Wrex, scourge of Tuchanka and killer of hundreds. Thousands, even!

A crick in his neck brought him back to reality, and he rolled it in that characteristic krogan style. The galaxy would wait a while, but for now, he needed out of this stinking cave. And something to eat. And maybe some more ryncol...

Walking out of the room, Wrex found himself greeted by the familiar sight of the cramped, dimly lit corridors of the Harirut, all rusting girders and concrete walls. There used to be some facilities-heating, water-but all the technology for that had been cannibalised when his father needed it for weapons development. It didn't particularly concern Wrex. They made do with whatever they had, and ambushing the occasional supply freighter passing through the DMZ didn't hurt their chances of saving a few more Urdnot lives. Any that died here had earned their deaths in rigorous battle, and those that didn't usually made it out. So either way, there was good news for the krogan.

Navigating down one of the passageways, he wrinkled his nose at the harsh, acrid stench that was wafting through the entire cave. When he rounded a corner, he almost bumped into a pair of medics carrying something on a stretcher. The tapered fingers on a hand poking out from under the hessian blanket confirmed his fears. "Another?" he demanded.

The first medic nodded sombrely. "Yes. They found her out in the wastes. Had bites all over her from rabid klixen. Tried to save her, but she was in bad shape." He spoke in the clipped tone of one who did not want to think too much about the matter at hand. Wrex tried to feel scorn, but couldn't quite manage it. Hard to feel things like scorn when you were sharing breathing room with a corpse.

Suddenly he registered the smell in the air. "They've started up the furnaces again. When was the last-"

"Four weeks. Shortest length of time in..." The medic exhaled, and looked away. "A long time. I don't know anymore. I don't know if I can-"

Without even realising he was doing it, Wrex stepped closer and placed a hand on the young krogan's shoulder. He couldn't have been much older than Wrex himself, yet suddenly he felt much older. "It's part of life on Tuchanka. There's nothing we can do about it. Except save those that are left."

It wasn't much of a Battlemaster speech, but it seemed to work. The medic gave his thanks, gave a grunt to his colleague and the pair moved around the corner with their grisly burden in tow. Not wishing to dwell on the matter, Wrex quickened his pace and left the internal section of the cave, heading towards the rift where the cliff's interior ended and what was left of the hospital began. Now the air began to stink of urine, faeces, vomit and blood, but it was a shitload better than what he'd left behind. Unfortunately, the noise also began to rise.

Wounded krogan, expectant mothers and foul-mouthed medics all contributed to the din. Racing in and out of rooms, carrying outdated antiseptics and medications, complaining of injuries, comparing scars, complaining of scale itch, eating steaks of various derivation, complaining of poorly-healed wounds, complaining about the tank water, complaining about the smell, complaining, complaining, complaining...

"Where can I get a doctor?"

"You say that again, runt, and I'll put your teeth through the back of your head!"

"I wouldn't feed this crap to a turian...alright, maybe I would."

"_Kar'grat ushtuk ter-aralakh bruk'av!"_

"Get me some more of that dentolin, it works for laser burns and we've got plenty of it."

Wrex decided to avoid the crush by going around the edges of the main corridor and through to what was sneeringly referred to as "the lobby." Once there, he'd collect his weapons, get back to the camp and find out if Urdnot Drachus had survived. He hoped not. Jarrod would make him apologise, and it was hard to go back to the way things were before you impaled someone with a spike as big as the gun it came from.

Not far now. He was almost through-

"Move your ass, scum!"

He felt a shove between his shoulder blades, and was propelled forward into a stalagmite. His tender skull smacked into it neatly and his headache returned with a vengeance. Snarling, he whirled around, hands going to his belt, but finding nothing. His weapons were waiting at the entrance. Instead, he glared at his attacker.

It was another Urdnot youth, about the same age and height as he. His crest was brown, which was common among the males of the clan. But this one-standing with arms folded and scowling-reeked of arrogance and hostility. The look in his eyes was plain. Wrex took a step towards him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, whelp?"

The bastard sneered at him, beady red eyes tracking him. "Getting an oaf like you out of my way. You're a waste of space anyway, so just keep to one side with the females. Got it?"

That he would not allow. Wrex stepped forward, fists bunching. "Why don't I-"

Quicker than he could process, the brown bastard headbutted him, sending a rictus of agony through his crest and through his mind. Coloured spots danced in his vision. All this cranial punishment couldn't be good for him. Ignoring it again, he growled out, "That all you got?" Then seized him by the shoulders and kneed him in the quad.

As his opponent crumpled to the floor, he shot out a hand, and seized Wrex's ankle. Not expecting this, he lost balance and fell down, his hump cracking against the stalagmite. Before he could get up and kick the fucker in the face, he heard the _tick-tick-tick_ of a charging graal. Right next to his head. Raising one hand slowly, he spoke aloud. "Nothing to worry about here."

The hospital guards were famous for their uncompromising judgement and tendency to shoot first and take sides later. This one, a hulking specimen called Urdnot Frum, slid his mouth back into a leer. "You sure 'bout that? I could make something to worry about, if I wanted." He shifted his attention to Wrex's assailant. "What about you, big guy? Wanna start somethin'?"

Like a true coward, the bastard brushed himself off and rose to his feet. "No, "he muttered. Then he turned heel and disappeared into the crowd, looking for another way around.

Frum jabbed Wrex in the side with his graal, which was still giving off a lethal whine. "Last thing I want are some gung-ho twerps like yourselves shootin' up the place and causin' a ruckus. Got females here, some children too. They don't need none of it. Understood?"

The man was an idiot, but a well-meaning one. Giving him a cool nod, Wrex slid past the guard and onward through the main corridor, eventually coming out into the lobby. The fierce daylight of Tuchanka leaked through what remained of the slatted windows and random holes in the hospital facade. A large, dusty leather flap was used as an impromptu doorway, covered in notches from all the impatient hands that had dragged and clawed against it. Off to the right, a former reception desk was used as a place for the "doctors" to relax when off-duty. Currently two of them were sitting back to back, snoring.

Standing near the door was the last person he expected to see. His father, arms folded and looking distinctly uncomfortable. Hospitals had never sat well with the old bastard, particularly ones built by the treacherous salarians. He kept expecting a bomb to collapse the remainder of the building, or for hidden gas canisters to suffocate everyone inside it. Years of constant security sweeps had not allayed his concerns. It was one of the many irritating aspects of his personality Wrex had learnt to deal with. "Skull still in one piece?" he asked, by way of greeting.

Wrex touched one finger to it with a deadpan look. "You tell me. You were the one that tried to put your fist through it." He walked past Jarrod and over to the guard by the door, holding up his chit. Upon seeing it, the krogan nodded and spoke into the radio clipped to his head. "Number thirty-eight." He then said to Wrex, "Your gear's on the way."

Nodding his thanks, Wrex turned back to his father. "What are you doing here? Since when do you care about my general wellbeing, father?"

The Urdnot chieftain sniffed and looked away. "Didn't want to have to drag your dead ass out of here, in case you're softer than I thought. Don't kid yourself, son; if you died, it'd be the furnaces for you. S'good as a funeral pyre and be glad of it."

_Yeah, right. Your only son, grilled like a varren steak._ Wrex was assured of his place as Urdnot's sole successor. Jarrod knew it, too. He looked back the way he had came. "Speaking of which..."

Jarrod's expression turned flat immediately, eyes dull like stones. "I know. But get used to it. Ever since the rebellions...it's just something to take in your stride." He then did precisely that, pushing the entrance flap aside and walking back outside.

An orderly arrived with Wrex's shotgun, gauntlets and pistol. He accepted them briskly and then followed his father, who was opening the hatch of a Tomkah and swearing under his breath. Eyeing it dubiously, he shouted over the howling wind, "Fortack didn't fix the engine, did he?"

"Of course not, the old fuck is still trying to un-stick the manifold from his pyjak shredder or some shit like that, "Jarrod shouted back. "I'd wring his neck if he wasn't so damn important. Well, get in. It's this or we walk back to the camp, and I'm not in the mood for fighting a thresher maw or whatever Tuchanka decides to throw at us." He pulled himself inside the cockpit with a grunt and slammed the hatch closed. The vehicle's engine came to life with a sputtering roar.

Running up, Wrex leaped and grasped a handle on the truck's side. Nestling into a comfortable crevice that smelt of blood and oil, he rapped the sand-coloured metal and received two knocks in response. The entire thing lurched into motion, and the wind, already bitter, found itself a convenient ally. Wrex was wishing he had a helmet or a pair of goggles, but they had been left inside the truck.

As they swung away from the cliff, down a hill and back onto what passed for a highway, the truck suddenly swerved and plowed through a boulder. Chips of stone went everywhere, and one sliced along his exposed leg. Clutching one hand to it, he shouted, "Watch it, asshole!"

He could swear he heard Jarrod sniggering.

Still grumbling, Wrex tried to ignore the pain and watched the mostly-destroyed scenery flash by. Rubble, sand, old buildings, old statues, industrial warehouses, abandoned missile silos...it was a rich tapestry. Then he saw a plume of smoke, near where the cliff simply disappeared into a mountain made of sand, and his stomach dropped. The furnaces weren't the only place.

In a shallow basin visible from the top of the Tomkah, he saw twenty or so krogan piling bodies, taking them from flatbed trucks and carts, placing them into a giant macabre pile. Flame was taken from a nearby bonfire and used to spark the entire assembly. Even from this distance, Wrex knew that, to a krogan, they were all female. Females that had driven to despair by the genophage, had seen their children die without taking a breath and decided to end it, either by gun or knife or by wandering into the wastes. Just like the one on the stretcher in the Harirut cave. That was why the fire was being built. That many bodies couldn't be left to rot in the sun.

Wrex sighed deeply, unheard over the roar of the wind and the truck, and averted his gaze. He did not look back up for a long time. Better to look down at the scars on his body. At least those had been inflicted fairly.

*************************************************

After an excruciating hour spent riding the truck, father and son finally pulled into the relative shelter of the Urdnot encampment. Located in a box canyon, the entrance of which was heavily guarded, there was a sophisticated camouflage shield over the plateau level, a remnant of the rebellions when they needed protection from turian air support. It was bomb-proof, radiation-proof and would not show up on sensors. Even decades under the harsh gaze of Aralakh hadn't managed to pierce it. Thus, the scattered buildings and dwellings of the Urdnot krogan were bathed in deep shadow. The sun was setting anyway.

They parked next to the other Tomkahs, and the engine chose that moment to break down. A loud groan rippled through the entire vehicle and a blast of red smoke blew out from under the chassis. The hatch wrenched open and Jarrod emerged snarling. "That fucking engine is Fortack's problem! If he spent half as much time on fixing these trucks as he did bitching about lack of resources..." He dealt the ailing truck a swift kick and turned away, still cursing. "Get down from there, damn it. We've got something to discuss."

Wrex hopped off the truck with a thud and immediately regretted it. His limbs were palsied with tiny cuts from the wind, not to mention limp with inactivity. He fought off the numb feeling that was creeping up his legs and arms, and fell in behind his father. Idly, he wondered what he had done wrong now. Killing Drachus might have been ill-advised, but come on. The man was a complete tool.

In a few minutes they entered the low-roofed concrete bunker that belonged to Jarrod. The decor inside was sparse: a moth-eaten rug from asari space, a few primitive sketching on the walls from the glory days of the krogan and a table with some food and drink. At the far end lay a massive throne, crudely hacked from basalt. It served as the glorious seat from where Clan Urdnot was governed and guided. Or so Jarrod kept saying, in the belief that saying stupid things repeatedly made them true.

The clan chieftain stomped his way to his beloved seat and slumped into it with a contented sigh. _It can't possibly be that comfortable, _Wrex thought, letting his gaze wander. Rubbing his eyes, his father muttered, "Your training schedule is going to undergo a change."

That got his attention. Snapping his eyes back to his father, he demanded loudly, "What do you mean, change?"

"If you shut up for a fucking minute I'll tell you." The curt tone in his voice brought Wrex to heel. There were times when baiting his father was alright. This was not one of those times. He settled in to listen.

" You killing Drachus has left me to face a problem. He had friends in this camp, powerful ones. So far, news of his death hasn't spread, but that won't last. I'll have a bunch of aggrieved sycophants crashing in here stirring up troubles. Things were just quieting down after I killed those Blood Pack insurgents and _now-"He_ crunched a fist into his palm-"I've got this shit to deal with. So thanks, Wrex."

Wrex stared back coolly. "You were saying about my training?"

"Ah yes." He laced his fingers together. "In order to placate the others, your singular training privileges are going to be revoked, and you will be assigned a partner."

"_What!" _Wrex shouted, striding forward. "But-"

"No buts, Wrex!" Jarrod shouted back, lips flecked with foam and a wild look in his eyes. "I'm the clan chief around here, in case you hadn't noticed! I need to provide a counter to the fucking politics in this camp, and you're the one to help me do it. Besides, what makes you think you _deserve_ any fucking special treatment?" He grabbed a nearby goblet and flung it at his son's head. "You talk a fine game, and you've got skill, no doubt, but you've got equals out there, my son. And that is what this new training will prove." He settled back down, cheeks red from shouting.

Wrex seethed silently, furious at this change of events. He'd never expected a drop of sympathy from his cunt of a father, but this...this was unfathomable. He _was_ the premier warrior of Clan Urdnot, damn it! And an outsider, no matter how skilled, would ruin it. Facing Jarrod, he asked in a deceptively calm tone, "And who is this new training partner?"

Jarrod pointed at the door. "I ordered him to meet us here. He'll be here any minute-"

The door was shoved aside, and a krogan with a brown crest marched in.

Their eyes met, and each let out a groan. Then a snarled accusation, each fired with recognition and hatred.

"_You again!"_


	3. Chapter 3

"_We didn't know it at the time, but that first duel of theirs was the start of it all. Both of 'em fierce and capable warriors, both hating the other more than death itself, hell, more than failure maybe...and it was a bloody duel, bloody even for us krogan. I still remember it, even now."  
_-Excerpt taken from the historical text _Krogan: Legacies_, published in 2180, direct quote from Urdnot Shaman (actual name unknown)

_I don't fucking believe this._

Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, Urdnot Wrex's eyes burned a hole into the far wall of his cell. Well, that was a generous term for the squalid pit he was currently languishing in, until such a time as his father (_his rot-brained turd of a father)_ deigned to have him taken out and back onto the surface. Krogan being what they were, the only cells and jails that functioned were those that employed gravity, height, depth and other factors as the most effective warders of all.

Urdnot thralls had dug a series of pits and crevasses, using shovels and digging equipment, to be used as a place for malcontents and dissenters in the camp. Ironically, to end up down here was a fairly mild punishment-Jarrod was not the type to let someone slowly starve to death, not unless you were a turian or salarian. If you were taken out of the camp and onto the desert flats...then you were really in the shit. Make your peace with the ancestors, because you would be feeding the klixen in no time.

In a hole isolated from the others, Wrex sat silently and brooded. He cast his mind over the events of the past day or so and sighed to himself. "Well, "he muttered aloud to nobody, "that could have gone better."

_-Fifteen Hours Previously-_

Wrex's hand dived toward his gun without even thinking of what would come next. "Son of a bitch-"

Only marginally slower than he himself, the brown-crested krogan quickly snapped an M-6 Carnifex heavy pistol at his side and drew a bead on Wrex's head. "Don't even think about it!" he snarled. "I'll waste you in seconds."

So there they stood, with each other dead to rights, guns primed. Wrex glared at his rival and squeezed the trigger, prepared for the recoil and the white-hot pain that would flare on his skull. He didn't think even this moron would miss at such close range-

"ENOUGH!" A stentorian bellow echoed throughout the room, and both krogan youths flinched upon hearing it. Urdnot Jarrod launched himself off his throne and strode angrily towards them. "If I don't see weapons down in two _fuckin'_ seconds then I'll rip the both of you apart! _Now do it!" _he screamed.

Usually that was enough to make Wrex back down, or at least put the safety on his weapon. _But not this time. _He wouldn't stand for this bastard sauntering in here and taking away everything that he had a right to, the hell with what Jarrod had to say! In an icy tone Wrex stated: "If he puts his away then I'll put mine away."

Jarrod's eyes bulged, and he sucked in another huge breath. The other krogan, nowhere near as adept at gauging the clan chief's moods, sullenly holstered his pistol. "There. We're all nice and friendly now." He bared his teeth at Wrex in a faux smile. "Just how friendly I can show you soon."

Wrex ignored him and put away his weapon. "Who is this idiot?"

The idiot in question growled, but Jarrod's demeanour was still keeping him in check. His father spoke in a tone that spoke volumes. "This warrior is called Wreav. He is the spawn of Urdnot Drachus, and he is worthy enough to challenge _you, _Wrex. If nothing else, he'll give you something to focus on. A rival." He turned away, his breathing once again back to normal, and trudged back to his throne. He seemed very tired all of a sudden.

Wrex shot a glance at this...Wreav. This upstart. "Do you seriously think he'll prove a worthy opponent, father? You know that I'm the best unblooded warrior in Clan Urdnot-"

"When was the last time you duelled someone, Wrex?" The question was harsh, flat.

He hesitated at this, because he realised to his horror that Jarrod had a point. What with singular training, he'd never really had the time in the past-"Three months." But that didn't matter at all! He hadn't been sitting around on his ass all that time. He'd been honing his skills, damnit.

Jarrod nodded smugly, as if he'd just won a trifecta on a varren fight. "Three months. That's a long interval period for the "best unblooded warrior in Clan Urdnot",wouldn't you say?" For his part, Wreav just chuckled slyly, a noise that Wrex immediately hated. And would continue to hate, for the next twelve hundred years or so.

He made one last bid for clemency, striding forward. "But-"

There was a joke around the camp that Urdnot Jarrod's good humour was like a salarian STG spy-no sooner it appeared than it disappeared again. Here was a classic example of that, as the smirk receded from his face and his fists tightened around the arms of his throne. "Are you, "he hissed through clenched teeth, "defying my direct order, son?"

More than anything, Wrex wanted to say _yes_, and lay down the law. Show his father that he wasn't going to be pushed around and paired with a shithead (quite apt, considering the colour of his crest), and make things the way they were. But in his heart, and even in a little alcove of his mind he knew it would be foolhardy, if not downright suicidal. He wasn't _that_ indispensable. And Jarrod's word was law, as far as this camp was concerned anyway. So he ducked his head in a traditional gesture of submission and stepped backwards, to stand alongside with Wreav. But he met his father's eye calmly and without flinching. "What's to be done?"

Once again firmly in control, his father yawned magnanimously. "Your training will commence in a day or so. But I think, as a prelude, a good old-fashioned duel would be a good way to commence this healthy relationship." He grinned maliciously at both Urdnot youths. "Settle some grudges the hard way, yes? In the circle. No guns. No tricks. Just skill versus skill." He stopped to have himself a laugh. "If that's anything to go by then you should come out as a clear winner, hmm Wrex?"

He refused to rise to his father's jest. Particularly when his rival was standing right next to him. "When do we fight?"

"Yeah." Wreav had finally spoken up. He was pounding a fist into his palm. "I want to get this over with, so this one can cut his attitude problem, heh."

Jarrod spoke quickly, to avoid another blow-up between the two. "In six hours time, when Aralakh rises once again. You will have time to prepare. Now, leave for your quarters. A footman will be sent to bring each of you to the circle. Are there any questions?"

None. Both knew what they had to do.

"Good." Jarrod crossed his arms into an X. "Long live Clan Urdnot!"

*******************************************************  
Up until walking in through that door and into the clan leader's throne room, Wreav hadn't been quite sure what was expected of him. But when the clan leader summoned you, you did as you were told and damn quickly too. He envied the power that Jarrod exerted over the other Urdnot clansmen in the camp. Like ants they were, beneath his feet. It only confirmed what Wreav had always been told by his father Drachus-why work to be respected, when you could be feared with half the effort and twice the killing? It only made sense. Besides, krogan didn't really appreciate fine words and fine gestures. And that was fine by him.

But as soon as he'd laid eyes on that red-crested shitsack, that...Wrex, he'd instantly known what he had to do. Jarrod was tired of his upstart son and his arrogant, self-righteous thinking. It was patently obvious to anyone with a brain. So he'd looked for someone that could upset the current balance and unseat Wrex from his unfair position of power. Someone like Wreav, the logical choice, the _only _choice!

Chief's son...Wreav had to stifle a laugh as he marched from the room and back out into the windy canyon. Maybe he was a half-decent warrior, but too soft and pampered by far! Used to all the ease and privileges that being a chief's son brought. Well, not for much longer. Not if he had anything to say about it!

Well, he didn't exactly intend to use words in the fight to come. That was for the females.

He heard the titanium door squeal open, and turned to see the prize idiot himself emerge from within. Still looking royally pissed, which gave him no small amount of satisfaction. _Aww, is the big bad chief's son bitching because he can't play with the best toys anymore? _Wreav gave a snigger, one just loud enough to be heard over the moaning of the wind and the clanking of the blast shield high above their heads.

The bastard shot him a glare, brows bunching. His eyes were almost like the deeper red of the females-just another reason why Wrex was a complete buffoon. Lifting a warning finger, he growled, "Save it for the circle, cunt. You won't be laughing then, once I'm through with you."

Wreav sneered in response to this. "You know the difference between you and me? I don't need my father around to protect me. If Jarrod died today then there'd be more than enough people in this camp wanting to tear you apart." He leaned forward close to Wrex's scarred face, letting his words sink in. "So watch your step now that I'm around, Wrex. You're not a protected species anymore."

To all this, the bastard just smiled. The sort of hard-edged smile that made Wreav tense just the slightest bit, because not for nothing had Wrex been undergoing the singular training. "You know, your father went to that canyon looking for some cheap laughs and came back on a stretcher with a spike in his throat." He leaned in even closer, till the two were eye to eye. Ruby red bored into rust-red. "And my father went looking for a patsy, someone who could maybe match up against me, and found...you." Silent for a few seconds, he shook his head slowly. "I wonder what's going to become of this? Nothing good, I'm sure."

And with that, Wrex turned and walked away. Down the slope, towards his own quarters.

For his own part, Wreav grunted in surprise. _Not as dumb as he looks. _Still, that wouldn't win him any favours in the circle. He left for the barracks near the canyon entrance, already daydreaming of the glorious battle to come. Wrex would learn to fear the name Wreav.

So would the entire galaxy, in time.

*****************************************************  
That had been well handled, all in all. Reminding Wreav that he'd made a kebab of his asshole father would serve as sufficient warning. Not to mention he enjoyed seeing the spark of fear in his eyes when he'd spoken about it. Mind you, he was sure that Wreav wasn't losing sleep over it. As a rule, relationships between father and son in the Urdnot camp were shaky at best. And from what Jarrod had told him of Drachus, he had never borne much affection for his offspring.

_You'd think the genophage would have instilled a little compassion. Yeah, good one, Wrex._

At this juncture, Wrex felt that a good rest, some roasted varren and maybe a few hours out on the firing range would go some distance towards tempering his current black mood. But he didn't have time for that. Night had fallen, and the stars were out (those that could be seen through the smoke and ash haze), but sooner than expected, Aralakh would emerge from the horizon and begin to burn Tuchanka anew. And at that time, he and Wreav would be joined in combat. He could dwell on these new developments later; right now, he needed to prepare.

Wrex had no intention of letting Wreav get the upper hand.

Coming to the bottom of the slope, he saw a trio of krogan elders striding back the way he had came. They did not look happy. _Drachus' ass-kissing brigade, no doubt._

Wrex wandered between the two pillars that marked the boundary of the living section and made for his own hut. At this time of night, few were out on the street, save some guards and the occasional female performing menial tasks. One such woman lifted her head from the pile of rags she was washing in almost-black water and nodded curtly. "Wrex. Come to visit an old woman, have you?" She was indeed old-maybe the oldest Urdnot female still living. No doubt the salarians could tell by virtue of their census data, but no-one was going to ask them for a toothpick, let alone information.

He forced a smile past his latent fury and shook his head. "Sorry, Parula, but there's a battle to come, in the circle tomorrow. I have to prepare. Perhaps another time."

Parula snorted. "Another fight? You males are always fighting. If you spent half as much time doing jobs that needed doing, we would rival the Citadel itself. Or Thessia, even." The old woman had travelled to many places, thus earning her a place in the clan as honorary storyteller and occasional shaman. But usually that role was given over to a male, when inter-clan matters were at stake.

Wrex couldn't argue with her logic, however. He sighed, and bent down to help her tease out mud from one of the rags. Women's work, some would have called it. Helping an old friend, was better suited to his ears. "It's not that simple, _ukresha, _"he said, using the old Raik word for "gentle giver." "Jarrod's got this-"

She waved him away, pulling away the rags. "Jarrod's an even bigger fool than you. What he does is no concern of mine. Just be sure that it doesn't entrap you. The old wardog is cunning." Parula turned away from him now, gathering up her bundles to take back inside her hut. "Consider that my advice for your fight. The rest you can handle."

He grunted with amusement. As usual, Parula had hit the mark. "Thank you, Parula. Take care."

She flashed him a half-smile. "My honour." She stepped across the threshold and was gone.

Sighing, Wrex continued onward. The old female had been something of a surrogate mother to him. When the genophage had set in, his real mother had begun a spiral of despair, ending with putting a gun to her head while standing at a precipice, upon the heights that gazed out onto the Farru'vat Plains. She'd been alone, leaving only a note behind to detail her death. Jarrod had been devastated, so much so that he refused to mention her anymore. Or let anyone else do so, for that matter.

They'd never found the body. Only the gun with a single bullet missing.

Shaking himself from unpleasant memories, he journeyed on.

Eventually he sighted his own modest dwelling and slipped on in. The lock on the door was busted, but it hardly mattered. No-one in their right mind was going to steal from him, or try to break in.

Except, possibly, the armoured krogan sitting on his favourite chair with his feet up, gnawing on a handful of kephrana nuts. Those would take some time to get through; they had shells like thresher-damned battle tanks. Cocking his head to one side, the intruder mumbled through a mouthful of food, "Forgive my effrontery, Wrex, but I haven't eaten for a few days."

Wrex's surly mouth split into a warm grin. "I'll let it slide this one time, Beddak." He strode in and seized his old friend's hand in a firm grip. "Good to see you. Still alive?"

Beddak swallowed with an effort, and rose from the chair, now able to smile. "As far as I can tell. Of course, sunny Tuchanka isn't making things any easier. A goddamn klixen ate my gun, can you believe that?" The coarse words were offset by the carefully modulated voice, a product of the time he'd spent training with infiltration operatives from Khar'shan. A krogan accent would only take you so far in certain circumstances, and Beddak had been eager to learn.

Wrex laughed, and went over to a darkened recession in the far wall. "After the day I've had, I'd believe anything." He pulled out a clay jug of something alcoholic (he couldn't remember what it was called anymore) and set it on the granite bench between them. Slumping down into his chair, which was layered with the skins of prize varren, he sighed wearily. "Strange times in Clan Urdnot, my friend."

"Oh?" Beddak's curiosity was immediately piqued.

Wrex uncapped the jug and sloshed some of its contents into his mouth. "My father's gone crazier than usual. He pulled me out of singular training and saddled me with this fucking moron." He gave the table a contemptuous slap. "Wreav's his name. The son of Urdnot Drachus. And true to the blood, he's an asshole. Can't put a bullet in his throat like I did his father, though. Gotta consider _"clan politics"_, he said, mimicking Jarrod's words from earlier. "Fucking hell."

Beddak gave a grumble of sympathy and reached for the jug. "The life of a clan chief's son is never easy, Wrex. You know that more than anyone. Hell, sometimes I think you're determined to take the whole weight of the krogan on your shoulders, the way you talk." He flashed a grin tinged with condescension. "Unhealthy, some might say."

Wrex bristled at this, but could hardly deny it. That act of comfort at the hospital wasn't an isolated incident-the genophage had set the krogan down the slippery slope, and he found himself fighting against it, despite the ultimate futility of it. Something even his father hadn't been able to beat out of him. So he stayed silent.

Beddak drummed his fingers on the table, filling the low-ceilinged room with rhythmic tapping. "Fortunately for you, I can give you a hand with your current problem. This Wreav bastard, I've heard of him. Full of shit, but not street trash either. Can handle himself in a fight, by all accounts. More or less rules the youth section of the barracks. Probably fancies himself as a contender for your job, Wrex."

Wrex was out of his chair and slamming both fists down onto the table surface. "I'll never lose to that fucker!" he roared. "I'll crush him like a fucking insect!"

"I have no doubt, "Beddak said mildly. He got up again and set the jug aside. "But you need to be careful, Wrex. This is bigger than you and Wreav having a slap fight. You're representing Jarrod's interests in this, and Wreav's putting on a show for the whole camp. There are plenty in Clan Urdnot don't care for your father, and by extension you. Wreav's been dealt a great opportunity to push for a future claim of his own. This might get ugly."

Wrex was struggling to understand it all-he was a warrior, not a politician, damn it-but he got the gist. Growling, he asked, "So what other information do you have on Wreav? The kind that's useful in a fight."

Beddak bared his teeth. "Well..."

**************************************************

Once Beddak had finished with his discourse on Wreav's fighting technique, he took his leave. "Nothing personal Wrex, just need a place of my own to stay for a few nights. Still recovering from that hunt, it was fucking brutal." He rubbed his leg, which had a nasty-looking burn decorating it.

His friend barked a laugh, and clapped one hand on his shoulder. "I understand, Beddak. Thanks for the assist. Tomorrow, I'll be sure to put it to good use." He slammed his fists together in a traditional gesture of pride.

Beddak chuckled. "I'll be there, count on it." Giving a final nod, he stepped across the threshold and was gone.

Standing out in the brisk night air, he cast a wary glance around the street. Then, satisfied that it was sufficiently deserted, he pulled a ragged hood over his crest and began to walk.

He walked to the end of the street.  
He walked past the last of the living quarters, where the sounds of infants and their broken mothers could be heard.

He walked past the guard towers, the sentries themselves lulled into unconsciousness via the use of tranquilisers. They would wake in a few minutes, and have no memory of the event.

He walked past the ragged banners that marked the boundary of the Urdnot camp, and out onto the flats.

He walked until he came across a basin, filled with the corpses of krogan females who had foregone all hope. Then he waited. He had no concern of being found by Urdnot patrols. They were all male, and none would dare come here, for fear of disturbing the ghosts of wrathful females. Such terrors ran in the blood.

After an hour of stamping his feet and shivering in the cold, he heard the low growl of a Tomkah.

Turning around, he was greeted by several laser dots painting his body. He raised his hands and spoke calmly. "I am here, as ordered, clan leader."

It was hard to see in the dark-the truck's headlights were shut off, to ensure secrecy-but Beddak could make out the outline of a massive krogan climbing down off the truck, flanked by other large forms. He twitched slightly.

The three shadow-wrapped krogan came towards him and halted five paces away. Then the one in the middle spoke. "Search him." The voice was deep, commanding-were they not conducting business of the most dire kind, it would have boomed.

Beddak found himself being shoved roughly to the ground and being patted down for concealed weapons, explosives, knives, flares, chemical weapon canisters, suicide bombs or anything else that might pose a threat. Inwardly, he sighed. They did this every time. When were they going to trust him?

A moment later the answer occurred to him: _never._

After about a minute of this undignified treatment, he was permitted to get to his feet. The two lackeys withdrew back to their leader, who folded his arms in the dark. If he squinted, Beddak could make out burnished red armour. "Well?"

The last few meetings had taught Beddak to be concise. "Urdnot Drachus is dead. Wrex killed him in a training exercise. Caused a shake-up in clan politics."

"Really." The voice was hovering on the border of impatience. "Elaborate."

"Jarrod needs to placate Drachus' allies in the camp; otherwise they'll probably try to overthrow him. Since Wrex is the one who brought this situation around, he's pulled him out of singular training and paired him with Drachus' first son, Wreav."

A slight shifting in the darkness. "Wreav? I've heard that name..." He trailed off.

Beddak frowned. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. "There's more." At a nod, he continued. "The circle will happen tomorrow. Wrex and Wreav will fight. It's already going to smooth things over, but depending on who wins..."

"You will take care of that." There was no room for argument in that statement. "I need confusion and disorder in the Urdnot camp. Wreav must win the battle. This is crucial."

"But how will I-"

"Find a way!" The krogan's voice raised itself, and then sank back into quiet. "Wrex still trusts you, yes?"

That stab of guilt, which he managed to smother so well, rose up in him again. Jarrod's son had been nothing but a friend to him, which was rare considering his...position. Not that Wrex was aware of it, but still. "Yes."

"Good." A brief pause. "For now, proceed as normal. Let things develop at their own pace. When the time is right, I will contact you. Understood?"

"Understood, Thurak."

He felt like he'd fucked up just saying the name, and true enough, he had. A heavily muscled crimson arm blurred out of the darkness and struck his face, the metal studs carving deep gashes into his face. Blood splattered. "You are too familiar, _krei'dur._ Use my full name, or more of your blood will spill out onto the sand."

Hands to his torn face, he gasped out: "Jorgal Thurak."

"Better." He turned, signalled to his men, and remounted the Tomkah. The engine growled awake and the truck slowly trundled away, heading deeper into the flats. Soon it was swallowed up by the desert and gone.

Breathing heavily, already hearing the buzzing of gore-fleas that congregated wherever blood was spilt on Tuchanka, Beddak turned away from the pit of carcasses. Turned, and began the slow walk back to the Urdnot camp. He touched the stinging wounds on his face and cringed. He would need medi-gel.

And a few other things as well. Things critical to tomorrow's contest. It was going to be a very busy day.

What Thurak wanted, Thurak would get...and if it meant the destruction of Clan Urdnot, so be it.

**Oooh, the plot thickens! Seems Beddak isn't entirely on the level. Well, sorry to delay the prize fight, but rest assured next chapter will be full of Wrex-on-Wreav goodness! OK, that sounded wrong...but hope you enjoyed the chapter! As always, rate 'n' review for my happiness! **


	4. Chapter 4

**What's crack-a-lackin', my friends? Sorry this took so long to release, but I had some severe writer's block halfway through and a motherload of assignments besides. Also, I'm afraid I had to move the big fight back another chapter. Sorry! But as you'll see, the next chapter will be straight into it! So here's your latest instalment of Meet the Urdnots. Enjoy!**__

"...more and more krogan warriors, driven to nihilistic abandon by the effects of the genophage, began to desert their homeworld and miscellaneous other colonies in favour of credits, booty and other vices that tended to be earned with a gun. This was not the first instance of krogan gun-hands in the galaxy at large, but it was the beginning of a diaspora of sorts, where disillusioned krogan became a hallmark amongst the mercenary trade, as cheap but reliable muscle.

Back in their own system, however, the krogan who had turned mercenary were often treated with suspicion and even hate by most of the clans, save those that welcomed and even endorsed members of the feared Blood Pack group (notables include Clans Ganar, Vaszhet and Weyrloc) amongst their camps and villages. Many of these krogan had been exiled or otherwise ejected from their own clans and became krei'dur _(meaning "clanless" in the Raik tongue), never again able to fit into krogan society. However, their status as unaffiliated soldiers of fortune made them prized among the unscrupulous leaders of the krogan, as their desperation to reclaim honour became a useful source of leverage..."  
_- _Genophage or Genocide? An Investigative Account Into Krogan Society and Culture Post-Rebellions, _Chapter 5, page 689

When Aralakh returned, blazing fury, Wrex was ready.

His battle armour had taken some time to put back together after the last time (the "last time" having been caught in a landslide and being thrown to the bottom of a small chasm), but a night's hard work reassembling the pieces had paid off. The cuirass, shoulder plates, gauntlets, leg plates and hump-plate were all in place, gleaming in the light. As a sign of his unblooded status, it was the customary white and brown of krogan youths, though he'd added a pair of red slashes to the chest. It set him apart from the rest of the youths in the camp. And it would certainly do the same again, today.

Shaking his head to remove the stiffness of long hours on his workbench, Wrex brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping wood. "About time, "he said aloud to the small room he used for armour and weapons maintenance. It was the first time he'd spoken since Beddak had left.

Idly, he wondered who would be present at the circle today. His father, certainly, and Drachus' former hangers-on. Beddak would be there too-when his friend made a promise, Wrex believed it, which was more than he could say for anyone else in the camp. Well, except for Parula. But she _definitely_ wouldn't be watching today. The old woman abhorred the constant clashes between the youths, and had complained to Jarrod more than once. Hell, he had been there, one time. Parula had vehemently objected to the sending of war parties across the flats to prey on neighbouring clans, saying that males were needed to provide food and protection for infirm females. Wrex thought this sounded fair, and had said so.

"Shut the fuck up, you haggard bitch, "Jarrod had replied absently. "And you too, Wrex." And that had been that.

Well, he had bigger things on his mind today. Like shoving that asshole Wreav's face into the dirt a few dozen times. If he was lucky, maybe getting a few good jabs in his quad too. Hell, maybe this fight wasn't such a bad idea after all. Taking down Wreav would prove once and for all that there was no youngblood more capable in Urdnot than he. The thought of retaking his place in the clan brought a thin smile to his lips.

Giving his armour one last pat, he left the workroom and walked back to the front door, pulling aside the flap. The sun was still just touching the tops of the heights, meaning the streets were still deserted. That would change very soon-krogan liked to get an early start on the day, particularly the males. There was always more fighting, shooting, sparring and drinking to be done.

Judging he had some time left to wait, Wrex returned to his quarters and sat down heavily at his table with a sigh. On a sudden, strange impulse, he got back up and went to the crevice where he stored food and drink. Then he reached up, pulling aside a rock that he had placed there himself. It groaned, dropped to the floor. Wrex rummaged around in the new space, face expressionless.

Maybe it was gone. Maybe it had finally wasted away. But even if it had, what did it matter anymore? The genophage had seen to that.

But then a clang, a scrape and the object fell into his hands, covered in the dust of years.

It was a metal band, covered in the distinctive notches that came from contact with krogan fingers. Had Wrex tried to put it on, it would have been far too big-the band was designed to fit an arm smaller than his own, and indeed, that of any other male. A spiky, ill-formed script tapered across its surface. He now squinted at them, just as he had every other time he'd surveyed it. The wording was imprecise, but he could still read them: _strength of my heart, be mine everlasting._

Funny. He wouldn't have fancied old Jarrod for the eloquent type.

Shuffling back to the table, Wrex sat down gingerly and with great care. He turned the band over in his hands. The dull metal created a reflective surface, and Wrex gazed upon himself. He looked tired, and somewhat worse for wear, but ready. Ready to do what he had been born to. Suddenly he found himself speaking words he would never have said aloud, either to himself or anyone else.

"I don't like this, mother, "he muttered. "All this politicking and scheming. Power plays and crap. The old krogan were never like this. You had a clan leader, who had his krantt, who had their own separate krantts, and so on..." He sighed heavily. "Now it's all about how much terror Jarrod can put into the hearts of everyone here. You two were...a good match. He might not have changed much, but you kept him in check. That's more than anyone else has done. Even me."

Wrex remembered, when he was but an infant, his mother had sat him upon her sizeable knee and told the story of how she and Jarrod had become wed. Back then, with no genophage to worry about, courtships had been manifestly different. In his prime, Jarrod had led a cadre of commandos, each a veteran warrior. He'd begun as a simple soldier, fighting the rachni deep in their poison-choked warrens, then advancing up the clan hierarchy, killing hundreds of the insect bastards. During the victory celebrations, when all of Tuchanka had been beset by the passion and fury of the all-conquering krogan, their gazes had locked across a roaring bonfire.

Things...escalated...from there. Wrex was born a few hundred years later at the height of the Krogan Rebellions, when Jarrod finally retired from doing war, settled down on the homeworld and became a prominent figure in Urdnot. He'd been a hard man, harder than most, but fair. His wife, Wrex's mother, had always been around to steady his hand, leash his temper. A good match.

Then the salarians neutered them all and here they were, standing in the ashes of what was left.

Wrex wasn't one to let his emotions, or personal feelings, get the better of him. That wasn't the krogan way. It wasn't his way either. But now, alone, unwatched by the hard eyes of his clansmen or his father and staring at a relic of a happier life, he fought to fight back the sudden despair welling up in him.

What was the point? What was the point of any of it? Even if he won today, all that he'd win would be a slightly higher position on the mound of garbage that was krogan society. Nothing would change, not really. The clan might grow stronger or weaker, or be wiped out altogether, but what did it matter? The krogan were dying. It was only a matter of time.

Part of him wanted to subside into a blank mass of acceptance, numbing acceptance. But soon, he felt something familiar take hold of him and cause his fists to curl into mauls. _Anger._

Anger at his father, for running this clan into the ground. Anger at his mother, for leaving him alone to deal with Jarrod. Anger at Wreav, for daring to take his inheritance from him. Anger at Drachus, for daring to doubt him. Anger at this planet, for being the most inhospitable wasteland in the galaxy. Anger at the Citadel races, for using them as convenient tools then condemning them to slow, gradual death as a species. And above all, anger at a galaxy that had stayed silent and just let all of it happen-

A knocking at the entrance. Wrex's head lifted, eyes narrowed. "What?"

One of his father's vassals edged through the doorway, eyes downcast. Typically, the vassals were half-castes who had fathers or mothers from other clans, and they were near the bottom of Urdnot society. This one spoke quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the ambience of such auspicious surroundings. "It is time, son of Jarrod. The circle awaits."

"About time, "Wrex said for the second time in a few minutes. He stood up, stretched, and motioned for the vassal to wait outside. "One moment." When the krogan had left, he picked up his mother's wedding band and returned it to its hiding place. No-one could know he had it. It was meant to have been destroyed, following her death. The rest of her possessions had followed.

Once it was secure, he cast one last look at his dwelling and strode back into the workroom. He could still feel the anger, simmering inside him like a charging gun. Mourning he may have been, but it would not stop him from delivering pain.

_Good. I want to kill something. And Wreav's in my way._

******************************************************

The circle lay some distance from the camp. At the bottom of a crater, the only way to reach it safely was to take the narrow, treacherous stone paths that lined the crater's edge, spiralling downward until it met the dirt. The harsh winds had weathered these paths to almost nothing, making the journey perilous. But they were krogan. They were used to it.

Coming to the top of a small hill, flanked by the vassal, Wrex shaded his eyes against the fierce sunlight and saw the depression. At the lip, he saw the familiar, hulking form of his father, along with a dozen or so other Urdnot clansmen. His spectators for the day. Beddak did not appear to be present, but that was no surprise. Jarrod would have little stomach for his presence. The two did not have a good relationship, anymore than Wrex and his father did. The vassal dipped his crest to Wrex, and set off back to camp.

Trudging downhill, he walked through an unforgiving landscape. Razor-sharp gusts of sand and powdered glass slapped his ankles and feet, and filled his ears with an unimaginable roaring. The ground was hard as steel, and sent coarse vibrations through the legs of his armour. The sun's rays beat down on him like a blast from a dreadnaught's main gun. Every now and then he had to change his course due to an alkaline pool, or quicksand, or the diamond-sharp bones of an unfortunate krogan claimed by the wastes. When it came to new and unusual obstacles, Tuchanka had no equal.

He eventually plodded to a stop in front of his father, who folded his arms and raised his brow-plate with something approximating respect. "Wrex. You look ready to fight. I almost expected you to bring some weak excuse instead of your armour!" A few of his lackeys guffawed, in that sycophantic way of theirs. Wrex simply bared his teeth in response, said nothing.

Seeing his son's mind was firmly in the fight, Jarrod grumbled and spat. "We're waiting on Wreav, but he won't be long. I impressed upon him the importance of being punctual."

Wrex snorted. "Maybe he pyjaked out at the last minute? Wouldn't expect much from the son of Drachus, father."

"Don't be so sure, halfwit, "someone hissed, and a krogan walked forward, throwing back the sable hood they'd been wearing. To Wrex's surprise and shock, the almond eyes of a female glared back at him. That was unexpected. Since when did the females give a damn about the male brawling? Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Parula.

He gazed coolly back. "And you are..?"

"Urdnot Kibera, daughter of Urdnot Drachus and brother of Wreav, "she snapped. She held up a clenched fist in front of Wrex, the veins bunching under the skin. "You killed my father, you son of a bitch. My brother will be dealing payback for the both of us today. Our revenge is as one."

Wrex rolled his eyes. A vengeful female on top of everything else. This day was getting better and better. "Stay out of my way, sweetheart. I'm really not in the mood for female theatrics right now. Although, "he said, placing a hand to his chin in mock thoughtfulness, "does that mean if I kick him in the quad you'll feel it as well?"

Kibera snarled and aimed a kick of her own at Wrex's jewels, but he raised one armoured leg to block it, causing the female to yowl in pain as her foot connected with the metal. She soon recovered and made to attack again, but Jarrod stepped between them. "Stow this pyjak shit now, "he growled. "I came to watch a duel in the circle, not a fucking bitch-fight." He raised a warning hand to Kibera. "Attack my son again, wench, and you'll find yourself in the pits. Understood?"

The bitch bit back a snarl, then bared her teeth. _She's more like a beast than a female, _Wrex thought with disgust. "Understood, chieftain, "she hissed again. Looking past Jarrod, she mouthed the words: _you'll pay for that, you bastard. _Wrex stuck his tongue out in response.

"Here he comes now." One of Jarrod's toadies spoke, pointed. A Tomkah truck had appeared as a blot on the horizon and was heading their way.

After a few minutes it trundled to a stop in front of them, and the engine shut off with a hiss. The hatch clanked open, and the familiar fuck-face of Wreav poked through the top. His gaze swept along all of them, coming to a stop at Wrex. "I'll be one moment, chieftain. I brought something." He disappeared back into the truck.

Brought something? That sounded...troubling. He jabbed his father in the arm, eliciting an annoyed grunt. "If he brought weapons, I'm holing his skull right now. Just a heads-up." He gave a nod at the pistol on Jarrod's hip.

"You would try, "came the voice of Kibera behind him.

"Fuck off."

"Both of you fuck off, "said Jarrod, half-turning. "Don't make me say it again."

A loud _crash_ snapped them out of their argument, and they looked up to see Wreav heaving a large crate to the ground. It looked a lot like an ordnance locker, and Wrex's pulse spiked. He called out, "Are you deaf as well as dumb, Wreav? This is the circle. No weapons allowed."

Some of the crowd laughed at this, and Wreav's face flushed. "It's not a weapon, retard, "he snarled. "You'll see all too soon." He leapt off the Tomkah and hit the ground with a thump, sending acrid dust everywhere. Lugging the crate forward, he set fingers to the access panel and wrenched it open. Curiosity enticed several krogan to come forward, to see what the youth had in store. Upon looking into it, their expressions of amusement turned to shock and exclamations burst forth.

"Is that-"

"How did you come by it?"

"This is a breach of the rules! Chieftain, you can't permit this to-"

"Hold your tongue, you old fart, there's nothing wrong with it!"

Jarrod crunched one fist into his palm, and let the sound speak for itself. Silence.

Striding forward, he fixed Wreav with a cold stare. "I don't need you causing a ruckus just 'cause you want to set yourself apart from the _gishrak_, Wreav. Empty the crate."

Obediently, the youth hit a button on the side of the locker and all four sides of it fell flat, revealing the contents. More growls and gasps of consternation went up, and Wrex had to push in order to see what everyone was getting into a twist about. The sight held no recognition or epiphany for him.

It looked like any other piece of krogan armour for the upper torso, complete with breast-plate, pauldrons and vambraces. But where the different layers of armour typically overlapped, instead there were small, semi-circular pieces of metal, sharpened to razor, jagged points. Basically, it looked as though Wreav had coins poking through his armour. Extremely sharp ones.

He looked up at his father. "So what is this? Some dusty old relic Wreav found in the Hollows?"

"Do _not_ blaspheme the Hollows, "Jarrod snapped warningly, and many of the krogan present made warding signs, even Wreav. Wrex felt a tinge of shame, but only for a moment, and it was quickly replaced with growing anger. "Fine, but you didn't answer my question. What is this, and why does it matter? A few extra pieces of metal aren't going to save this one from the beating of a lifetime."

Wreav bristled, but kept himself in check. _Impressive. For a moron._

"This, "Jarrod said harshly, "is no ordinary armour. This is one of the last remaining suits from the Rachni Wars." More oaths, more disbelieving growls. "We designed them so that if any of those insect motherfuckers got close enough to maul us, they'd just end up shredding themselves. But they were discontinued at the end of the wars because of the time it took to craft new suits. Used up too much raw material with those barbs, too..." He trailed off, staring at the armour as if it were speaking to him. Wrex shot a glance at his father's face; many emotions were there under the surface, fighting to be released. The Rachni Wars had been no stroll through the flats.

Jarrod snapped out of his reverie and looked around at the assembly. "It would seem there's some contention here, then? Not a happy bunch? Well?" This was usually how he approached a group argument: pose as a concerned authority figure, then quickly revert to cantankerous tyrant. They never learned. Especially the older breed.

One krogan, the thin green streaks on his crest indicating a distant kinship with Clan Gatatog, spoke. "Chieftain, this whole business is a farce. Your son has proven himself to be the strongest warrior of his generation-"

Wreav whirled to face him, his face a mask of fury. "You _would_ say that, you fucking ass-licker! This has nothing to do with _him." _He cast Wrex a hateful look, which he returned.

The krogan who had spoke growled, but took note when Jarrod held up a hand. "I'm afraid Wreav has a point. Wrex's new _position, _"he said warningly, "is not up for debate." He let that sink in, and a few krogan who were obviously queuing to speak next coughed audibly and shuffled uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Wrex himself seethed. Was his father really that blind?

"Now, is there anyone else who has words on this?" Playing at democracy, what a fucking joke.

Yet another krogan stepped forward. This one Wrex recognised from the group that he had passed on his way to his quarters yesterday. A friend of the late Urdnot Drachus. _Oh, this should be fun._

"I strongly denounce the words spoken by Urdnot Safuk, "he boomed. "This is a contest in the circle like any other. The clan hierarchy should not matter here. More to the point, this armour carries no real advantage in combat: it's an antique." He caught Wrex's eye, and snorted. "You're the fucking chieftain's son. Show some backbone."

Wrex folded his arms, trying his best to look unimpressed. Being scorned in front of everyone he could take, but not appearing the fool to boot. "You seem to know it all, Griduk, why don't you put on the armour? We'll go a few rounds. I promise to make it quick."

From this, a commotion broke out, with every krogan present voicing (or grunting and snarling, rather) their opinions on whether Wrex should have to fight, whether Wreav should be allowed to don the armour, or both. Fists were being bunched, and hands went towards weapons. This was on the verge of turning into a bloodbath. That, Wrex realised with some amusement as he watched the Urdnot clansmen squabble, would actually be better. He'd have the opportunity to riddle Wreav with thermal clips, and all would be well. Son would go the way of the father.

But before the universe could throw Wrex a bone, Jarrod swore under his breath. "Enough of this!" He lumbered forward, then darted with extraordinary speed. In a few moments, Wrex was being given a reminder why his father was running Urdnot. Back during the Rachni Wars, after wading through acres of the insect warriors' corpses in their underground warrens, he'd earned himself a name among the Urdnot and Raik clans, as he'd led commandos from both. _E'ptra ligrist. _The breaker of stillness. Whenever the assault had stalled, or stalemate and deadlock arose, Jarrod had broken it and renewed the attack. Decisively.

The Urdnot chieftain grabbed the skulls of two quarrelling clansmen and clashed them together, leaving them reeling. One tried to lash out, but Jarrod intercepted the clumsy punch, seized his fist in a lock and snapped the bones with a mighty crunch. The krogan roared with pain, but Jarrod was already moving on.

He slipped underneath the gripped arms of another two krogan and came up between them, sending them both staggering backwards as he broke them apart. Before they could recover, he slammed an elbow into one's gut, making him double over. Then he quickly hopped to one side, dodging the second krogan's blow, grabbed the winded clansmen in a vice grip and whirled him around, so that he took the hit. The first krogan grunted as his fist hit armour plating, and pulled it back for another attempt, but Jarrod delivered a crushing headbutt that dropped him like a salarian drinking ryncol. Wrex, still managing to stay out of the fight, winced.

Meanwhile, Wreav was dragging his armour out of the fracas, casting furious glares at anyone that came near. Wrex was almost tempted to attack him, but he knew Jarrod well by now. Soon this would be over.

Holding the struggling Urdnot Safuk in a headlock, Jarrod pulled out his pistol and placed it to his captive's head. He often did this, as a loaded gun usually settled disputes. Not that he would actually fire it, but it served as a useful example-

Jarrod pulled the trigger and blew Safuk's head off. Brain matter and skull fragments stained the ground.

And immediately after that, another gunshot rang out.

************************************************

As per Jorgal Thurak's orders, Beddak had been close by. Watching, waiting to do his part. He was no stranger to this, as the _unusual circumstances _of his life often required that he earn his pay where someone couldn't just come along and trip over him. That suited him fine. Beddak was a competent warrior but close-up he often lost out to more experienced krogan. That left stealth and guile, two traits he'd learned to cultivate extremely well.

It was safe to say, however, that firing on a friend had never been in the job description.

_A friend._ As he rolled onto his front, ensuring that he stayed in the shadow of the outcrop so the sun wouldn't reflect off his armour and give away his position, Beddak mulled over the concept. Could a _krei'dur _be said to have anyone to rely on, let alone a friend? It would be so typically _krogan_ of him to blame his predicament on someone else, and not face up to his own dumbass mistakes. Perhaps no-one had forced his father to mate with a female from the extinct Utchik clan, but neither had anyone made him proudly flaunt his father's name like a fucking battle trophy. If he'd stayed shut up, then maybe things would have been well and he would be serving in Clan Urdnot, or Jorgal, or Weyrloc even (_fucking rabid bunch they are)_. As it was, from an early age they'd muttered and scorned. _Oh yes, _they'd said, from the corners and shadows of the settlement he'd adopted, and eventually broad daylight. _Beddak. Father died in the rebellions, mother perished in the Utchik purge. Don't deserve to be here, not as clan or as guest. Enemy, that's all he can amount to._

So the only logical thing to do, Beddak reflected, was to become everyone's enemy. And work for the ones who were willing to stomach their hate for him, because it was concentrated on someone else. Such was life.

But Wrex...he'd been different. Granted, he had no damn clue that Beddak was a clanless shitsack, but he'd also managed to intuit he wasn't of Urdnot either. Even before Jarrod had worked it out, promising to geld him if he was caught in their camp again. Whatever the case, Wrex had treated him like a friend, and almost a brother. It was one of the many things that showed just how good a leader he'd be one day. With a man like Wrex at the helm of Urdnot, the entire krogan race, even, perhaps there would be hope for their tormented race. Beddak hoped he'd live long enough to see it. Genuinely, he did.

Which made this entire job utterly, completely, hilariously _stupid._ What would helping Jorgal Thurak accomplish? So he'd acquire another slice of rubble-strewn, radioactive desert, and whatever Urdnot had managed to scrape together in the ugly business they called living. He'd have more warriors to call on, more females to breed with. More power. And power on Tuchanka was like having the biggest stick in an army that was fighting a foe armed with guns. You could swing it as much as you liked, cut a sharp edge, but ultimately it got you nowhere. The CDEM saw to that.

The pay was good, no doubt about it. Twelve thousand standard galactic credits. Aralakh knew where the bastard had gotten that much. And Thurak had hinted at a possible offer of clan status, once the assimilation of Urdnot was done. All in fucking all, a tempting offer. The kind a _krei'dur _with nothing to rely on but a rifle and his wits would be stupid to pass up. Despite the thrills of the job and the occasional perk, Beddak was tired of having to run. He wanted his own house, for fuck's sake. He wanted a fucking chair to sit in. He wanted-_some thicker armour, this rock is cooking like a thermal detonator. _It made sense to do this.

Yet somehow, Beddak couldn't see Wrex surviving what was coming. He was too dangerous. For a moment, he had a sudden urge to leave this spot, walk into the desert and shoot himself in the head. Better for everyone concerned. Better that Wrex grieved him than the loss of his whole clan.

Suicidal thoughts weren't as rare as most krogan let on-

Shouting from below. He jerked awake from his inner turmoil and squinted through the swirling grit. What the hell was going on down there? Had the duel started already?

No. As a matter of fact, Beddak realised with some amusement, the only person duelling right now was Jarrod himself. He didn't like the old turd, not by any stretch, but he had a grudging respect for his skills at cracking heads. Skills he was putting to good use right now. _Don't think that Wrex got his badassery from his mother's side, somehow._

He watched the krogan dissolve into an earnest brawl, all swinging fists and butting heads. Ridiculous. How many of them, he wondered, realised how stupid it all was? Strange that a fight would spring up now. Probably some stupid technicality or point of fact that had been brought up by an over-officious clansman. That was usually it. Well, he'd just have to wait till it blew over-

Wait. What was that, amidst the roaring warriors and cracking bones? A certain movement, a hand reaching...Jarrod had some clansman in a vice grip and was going for the pistol at his belt. A chorus of quickfire deliberations rose up in a clamour, inside his mind.

_Clansman not a threat. Not a potential rival; Drachus dead, allies a rabble. Not conducting hostage situation, no-one dumb enough to start one. Needs to set example. Needs to bring them back into line. Will pull trigger. Highly likely. Not the norm, but strange times..._

An opportunity. He saw how it could play out, and choked back a surge of disgust. Was that how low he'd stooped? Firing on a friend, wounding him, all for the sake of petty politics? Beddak was a gun for hire, a murderer and assassin. Accordingly, he had a firmly established set of morals. There were some things, he knew, _you just didn't_ _do._ Killing children and females was one. Robbing a destitute clansman was another. And shooting a friend under false pretences without a _fucking good reason_ was right up the top of the fucking list.

_Wreav must win. _Thurak had said so. There was no way around it. And this shot would assure it, if anything would. He could take off and leave this shameful contest behind. Go to nurse the newly-carved wound in his soul.

Already, against the urgings of what remained of his better nature he felt himself reverting into that familiar mode. Not the cold, calculating mind of a killer-he was too invested with the current business to feel like that. Not a blank, dull numbness-the krogan blood still ran hot beneath his leathery skin. No, this was even worse than both of them. It was the feeling of reduction. It was the feeling of minimising everything, making a gun into a tool, a victim into an unfortunate necessity. When he returned to his dwelling, out in the wastes, he'd drink ryncol, fire his old guns at solid, unyielding targets, get stinking drunk. Maybe inject himself with some old sedatives. Look for some solace, and maybe even find some. Before the guilt started up again. It would never last, but even though he knew that, _he didn't care._ That was the saddest part of all.

Getting the job. Planning the job. Over-thinking the job. Having recriminations about the job. Tearing himself apart about the job. But, ultimately, doing the job.

So when he reached down to his side, dragged his customised Reaper sniper rifle up, peered through the scope at Wrex, and fired a round into his lightly armoured leg, he felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

******************************************************

Wrex felt something white-hot tear into his leg and yelled with pain. He collapsed to the ground, hands groping at the wound. _What the fuck was that? _The blood and pieces of charred metal that stained his hands confirmed it. _"Which one of you fuckbrains shot me!?"_ he roared aloud.

It took him a few seconds to realise that no-one was responding, much less saying anything at all. Composing a litany of death-threats under his breath, he pushed himself up and stood shakily on both legs, though the injured one still screamed with pain. But he was an Okeer-damned krogan, and he shoved it aside. Right now, his priority was to find out who had-

Then he saw what everyone was looking at and his eyes widened.

Safuk's headless body was sprawled on the ground, and above it stood Jarrod, breathing heavily. Gun smoke curled briefly before being snatched up by the razor winds. The clan chieftain raised the hand that held his pistol and swept it along the length of the group, including Wrex. "If _any of you, _create trouble like that for me again." He fired a round into the air and watched everyone flinch. "I will feed you to Kalros herself. Do you all get me? I mean, _AM I FUCKING WELL UNDERSTOOD?!" _The last part was practically a scream, one that bounced off the surrounding crags like an elcor death cry and did not dissipate for some time.

Swift as lightning, they all nodded as one. Krogan were taught to value a good death, but Kalros, the Mother of All Thresher Maws...no-one would wish that on their most hated _hrak'wa._

Sucking in a huge breath, Jarrod kicked Safuk's corpse out of the way and stepped closer. "Now, item two on the agenda. Who the _fuck_ shot Wrex?" He snapped his gaze about, looking like a trapped animal. "Well? I'm waiting."

No-one dared draw a breath, let alone speak. Whoever had fired that shot had committed one of the most heinous crimes known to krogan. In their society, it was permissible to challenge the chieftain for leadership, even to the point of underhanded tactics like assassination or poison. But attacking the kin of a leader showed no guts, no quad, nothing. It was reserved for those who harboured ambition but weren't brave enough to go for the throat, so to speak. They deserved nothing less than a painful death, something even Parula agreed with.

There was a scuffling, and someone was forced forward. Griduk. "He's got a gun!" someone shouted. "Look!"

Griduk blanched in fear. "Fuck, so do half of you!" he snarled, but the panic was rising in his voice. "Jarrod, it doesn't mean a damn-"

Again, that speed! Jarrod bounded forward, seized Griduk by the sides of his head and brought it arcing down towards his knee. There was a sharp _crack_ of bone hitting bone, and the accused began groaning in pain, slumped on the ground. The chieftain gave his knee a rub, then crouched down. "You're addressing the chieftain of Clan Urdnot, Griduk, "he muttered. "So when you do, be courteous, and show _some fucking respect!" _He rounded off his tirade with a vicious kick, which made Griduk's cries of pain double. Then he whirled around and pointed at Wrex. "Come here, son, and show me that wound. I'm getting a fucking answer if it takes all day!" He fired another round, this time near Griduk's head.

Wrex limped over and let Jarrod paw at the wound. He stifled both the urge to grunt with pain and to hit the clumsy fool. He paused for a few seconds, then grunted. "There."

Without warning he dug in and began looking for any remains of the heat sink. Wrex let out a bark of pain and tried to shove Jarrod away. "Fucking hell, stop!"

"Quiet." After a few more seconds, he yanked something sharp out and stepped away, leaving his son to nurse his wound and mutter invective under his breath. Jarrod scrutinised the blackened remnant of the thermal clip and noted the curved blobs that formed the design logo. "It's an Elkoss Combine manufacture!" he shouted. "Someone check Griduk's weapon!"

A quick pilfering of his belongings confirmed that his gun was also an EC weapon. He was truly fucked now. Every other krogan present drew back, like ripples in water. None wanted to be close to what was about to happen.

Jarrod tossed his own gun aside and cracked his knuckles. Then he began a slow, deliberate walk towards Grudik. "I'm going to give you some advice I gave to a group of asari one time, years ago. Don't. Fuck. With. _Me!"_

With a roar he set himself upon Grudik and started pounding him with his fists. The krogan-made-turncoat tried to shield himself from the blows, but Jarrod lashed out and deftly snapped both his wrists with brutal twists of his arms. Then he really got to work, smashing and pummelling until bones audibly snapped and blood splattered from the wounds. _Crunch. _A rib shattered. _Crunch. _Pelvis jarred. _Snap. _His entire right arm, now bent and useless from the shoulder down. Through it all, Grudik simply whimpered, the same noise made by all beings when they were slowly, surely, processed into dead meat.

After what seemed a punishingly stretched-out minute, Jarrod ceased his beatdown and stood above his clansman, hatred and fury etched on his weathered face. "You always were a slow learner, Urdnot Grudik, "he snarled, and brought his whole foot down. _CRUNCH._ His skull was pulp, the caved-in skull revealing the oozing brains matter beneath. Already, the gore-fleas were coming to feast on the unexpected bounty.

Silence.

Jarrod grunted derisively as he pushed the corpse over with a foot, hiding the brutal injuries he had inflicted. Then his eyes scanned the crowd, and his eyes alighted upon his intended. Wreav blanched noticeably, but managed to hold his ground. Even as the chieftain stalked towards him, much in the same way he had towards the late Grudik. He came face to face with the young warrior, breath coming out in gusts. He said nothing for a time, playing up the suspense. Then he spoke. "You're lucky."

Wreav stared back, baffled, angry, but saying nothing.

"You're lucky." Jarrod made to turn, then swung about with a fist moving so fast that it whistled through the air. "That I don't _fucking kill you_ right here!" Wreav managed to take most of the blow on his shoulder, but it still rocked him backwards, made him stagger. He cast a vindictive glance at the chieftain's back, now turned away for real this time. Everyone listened as Jarrod spoke, something like calm seeping into his tone.

"You all got a good look at what happens to deceitful, backstabbing cunts like _him._" He motioned to Grudik's body, now blackened with carrion. "But we've wasted enough time here already. We've a duel to witness, rites to observe. So enough.

"I've thought about it, considered things. My decision is this: Urdnot Wreav, you are not permitted to wear that armour." The son of Urdnot Drachus vibrated with rage, face trembling, but wisely stayed silent. "My son is already at a disadvantage with his wound, "Jarrod continued, "and to add to it would be too much. That is final."

Before he could realise what he was doing, Wrex said, "No."  
Everyone turned to look at him. Jarrod surveyed him with bewilderment. "What?"

Wrex pushed himself forward on both legs, though the injured one gave him trouble. "This runt will need all the help he can get. I say, let him wear it. Let him use it." He curled his lip. "Won't make a piss-stain of difference."

The tension, so long held in abeyance, shattered. Many krogan laughed and roared approvingly at this show of traditional bravado, while others booed and snorted with contempt. Eventually a chant started up. "Urd-not Wrex! Urd-not Wrex! Urd-not Wrex!" The fact that they were willing to look past his lack of adult status spoke volumes.

"Alright, enough!" Jarrod bellowed, though a hint of amusement remained on his face. _This is what he wants, _Wrex thought, _to tip the odds even more in his favour. Makes it seem fair._ The chant ceased and quiet prevailed yet again. The old chieftain pointed down to the circle far below. "Let's get down there." He set off, first down the trail as tradition demanded. The krogan assembly began to break up, and move in twos and threes down the treacherous slopes. Kibera gave Wrex one more piercing stare before donning her hood again and joining the rest. _Uptight bitch. Needs a good lay._

Wreav had two other krogan to lug down the armour crate, but before he went he gave Wrex a curt nod. They still hated each other with a passion, each seeing the other as the source of their present ills. But Wrex's gambit had taken a real quad, something even Wreav could respect if not admire.

Seeing he was the last, Wrex rubbed his leg once more and set off, leaving the body of his supporter and that of his detractor to rot in the hot sun.

*******************************************************

"We have ourselves a challenge this day! To all who would watch, still your tongues and take heed!"

The sandy-bottomed floor of the crater was packed with krogan, arranged in a rough ring. A few females who had attended sat up high on boulders, one nursing her swollen belly. All but her sisters kept a respectful distance, as was right and proper for a pregnant female. The rest, uniformly male, gave their final roars and shouts before complying with the shaman's words.

The old krogan jabbed a finger at Wreav, already grunting and snorting. "You have leave to speak, young warrior."

The arrogant bastard strode forward, chest swelling as his voice boomed out. "I'm Urdnot Wreav! Son of Urdnot Drachus, brother of Urdnot Kibera. My mother died before her name was given to me, and now I am without! My will is strong, but my fists are stronger. Today, I will show you, all of you, that a change is needed. Clan Urdnot has been set in its ways for too long! The few have been placed above the many. Worthy warriors have not been given their dues! I speak, and I fight, on behalf of them! After this battle, we will have to be recognised as the future of this clan!" He stepped back, his little speech over. Cheers and shouts vied with snarls and curses for supremacy.

_What a crock of varren shit._

The shaman nodded, and then pointed to Wrex. "You may speak, young warrior."

Wrex had done this before, and unlike, Wreav, didn't need to waste his time with grandiose ambitions for president of the youth barracks or whatever the fuck he wanted. He took a step forward and stood tall, his voice loud and commanding. "You all know who I am. Urdnot Wrex. Son of Urdnot Jarrod, son of Urdnot Tarisa. Through my veins the blood of a true krogan runs." He folded his arms. "I have no need of big words, or tall claims. My history speaks for me. Since my birth, I have striven to be the _strongest!_" He pounded a foot into the turf. _'The fastest!"_ Again. _"The toughest!"_ Again. _"The best!_ And I'll be damned if some big-mouth with an attitude problem is going to take that away from me today! So I stand ready to fight, ready to bleed, because nothing is keeping me from the future!"

Again, the spectators let their allegiances be known. Wrex couldn't help but smile as they did. This was what he lived for. This remained krogan, no matter what their race endured.

The shaman called for quiet, and brought them closer, about twenty steps apart. "You have spoken. Now the time for words is past. Now is when muscle, and bone, and fire, and strength become your weapons! The circle is the true test of a krogan's character. Here, you may rely on nothing but yourself. Your skills. Your cunning. Nothing else! Do you understand?"

"We do!" they shouted.

"Good!" The shaman held up his hand, then let it drop. "Begin the circle!"

Wrex glared at Wreav.  
Wreav glared at Wrex.  
Both snarled, rage coursing and filling their limbs with desire to inflict pain.

_You're going down, fucker._

And they went at it.

**-plays 300 music-  
Fuck yeah. Wrex vs Wreav. Fight of the century.  
Hope you liked this chapter! If you did, pretty please leave a review. Heck, if you didn't, leave one so I can make the next one better! Could really use em, guys. Anyways, peace out!**

__


	5. Chapter 5

"_A lot of krogan think that the circle is just a purely one-on-one fight. But that's not quite right. Yeah, maybe only one can win while the circle exists. But after that, with different krantts at each other's throats? Not many give thought to that, and it's those that don't that usually end up dead. Maybe we learned that from the salarians-that victory isn't victory when you lose it later on."  
_-Urdnot Wrex

The distance between them closed. Ten paces, five, one-

The pair slammed into each other like sledgehammers, their momentum halted with a jarring crash. They both snarled and spat as they tried to topple each other, armoured boots digging into the sand, seeking purchase. Gauntleted hands gripped shoulders like vices, seeking cracks in the armour. Neither yielded, and the only thing that could be heard past the roar of the crowd were the sounds of grinding, creaking and grunting.

Suddenly Wrex had an idea. His right foot felt secure, yet the sand was relatively loose and not compact. Perfect. Dragging the grip of his left hand on Wreav's shoulder down slowly, he quickly placed all of his weight onto his back foot and pivoted. Still straining forward like a varren on a leash, Wreav stumbled forward with a surprised growl. Wrex aimed a kick at his head, now lower to the ground-

The bastard threw himself back, and his Wrex's kick missed. Before he could try again Wreav was up on his feet again, and roared as he closed in for another charge. Wrex ducked into a crouch and unleashed a one-two into his gut. Wreav staggered, but seized his arm in a lock and bent it at an excruciating angle. Resisting the urge to swear aloud-he'd save that for when he was truly challenged-the son of Jarrod viciously headbutted his foe in the face, sending him back a few paces. He took a moment to smile: he was still the best headbutter in Urdnot, with the possible exception of his father. He considered going for another blow, but decided against it. Wreav had already recovered, and the pair circled each other.

It was customary for some duelling banter to be exchanged, and sure enough, it happened. "Not bad, Wrex." He hawked up and spat. "Think you might have scratched my armour with that little trick. What say a bet? The loser polishes the other's armour for a month."

"Sure, "Wrex muttered. "And we'll throw in a week's worth of cocksucking while we're at it. On the subject, is your sister busy?" Normally he wouldn't say such things of females, but he wanted to provoke a reaction from Wreav.

The son of Drachus hissed, and darted forward with agility. Before Wrex could put up a guard, he slammed an elbow into his face and followed it up with a strike to the jaw. A coloured burst flashed across his eyes, but Wrex shook it off in time to avoid a third attempt. Ducking, he dropped his shoulder and careered into Wreav. The bastard hadn't been expecting that, so he took advantage of that and grabbed the front of Wreav's armour, hefting him up onto Wrex's broad shoulders.

Fuck, he was heavy. With a mighty yell, he tossed the yelping Wreav through the air and watched him collide with a conveniently-placed boulder. There was a _snap_ as one of his pauldrons cracked against the razor edge and a spiderweb of fractures ran across the earth-coloured surface. While Wreav lay groaning, a cheer went up from Wrex's supporters. "Kill the bastard!" "Kick him in the quad!" Was Beddak among them? No way to say.

He strode forward, but a sudden shiver ran through his body and he stopped, concerned. What the hell was that? Some delayed after-effect of the bullet? On the subject, his wound was starting to sting again, though that could just have been the impacts of the battle. Either one was of no importance. He'd taken his prey, now he'd have to skin it, as the saying went. Shaking off the malaise, he made for his opponent, who'd rolled off the rock and now stood, breathing heavily.

Wreav made a fist and aimed a punch at his quad, but Wrex grabbed it and wrenched it fiercely, yearning to hear that elusive snap. But the bastard wasn't staying still. He started smashing his other hand into the side of Wrex's head, causing tremors of pain to ring throughout his skull. Both tried to ignore the other's repeated attempts to force submission, and both refused to break the deadlock. Wreav's arm quivered as Wrex maintained his fierce grip, and Wrex's skull started to bruise as the armoured fist slammed into it again and again.

Wrex was the first to break-not out of a reaction to the pain, but out of temper. _Enough of your shit- _He threw his other hand around the wrist he was trying to break and squeezed twice as hard. For a moment it looked as though he might succeed, but suddenly something sharp punched into his right eye and he shouted with pain, staggering back instinctively. The bastard had gone for his fucking eyes, the fucking crest-less bitch-

He heard a whistle and tried to guard his face, but he couldn't see a damn thing and an armoured fist jacked under his chin. He sidestepped another punch, made to grab Wreav's chestplate again, but the son of Drachus was wise to his act this time. He let his legs fold out under him and broke Wrex's clumsy grasp, and, now on the ground, crunched his boot into his crotch. Just before he seized up with the agony, Wrex dived forward to land on top of Wreav and angled his elbow sharply into his trachea. Unfortunately, it didn't simply fold and be crushed under the blow, but the roar that became a strangled gurgle brought a manic smile to his lips before Wreav batted aside his hands searching to grip and sprang to his feet. Wrex was still on the ground, and stayed there when a savage kick caught him in the jaw. He went sprawling, twitching.

That boot felt like a Karven's Mace when it hit, and Wrex had actually taken a hit from one of those weapons before. Spitting out a few dislodged molars, he turned his head to one side. Not so he could take another kick there-but so he could actually see it coming. His left eye was still a fuzzy mess. So when Wreav, smirk plastered on his weathered face, aimed another kick at his face, Wrex sent his fist hurtling to meet it.

_Clang!_ Steel rang out on steel and his opponent grunted in pain, hopping backwards to put some distance between them, but Wrex lifted himself up on his arms and propelled himself forward, sweeping Wreav's out from under him. He hit the dirt like a rock tumbling off a cliff. Dazed, Wreav tried to stand, but Wrex got to him first. Seizing him by the chin, he started punching.

Every damned gouge and scar he carved into the shitbrain's face was a sweet, roaring victory. He would've given a year's worth of ryncol and lying with the females just for a chance to hear the skull break, _crunch_, and tear out Wreav's inner thoughts, hold them dripping to the skies. Leave them to burn and crisp under the sun, along with the body of the idiot who thought he was good enough to challenge him, the greatest warrior of Clan Urdnot, and one day the entire Aralakh-damned krogan race-

Just over the sound of the crowd's cheering, mixed with the snarls and curses of those who'd followed Wreav, and the rhythmic noise of his fist, Wrex became aware of a faint sound. Coming from Wreav himself. The bastard was, he realised with a start, _laughing._

Letting his fist curl backwards and fall to his side, Wrex leaned in closer and went eye-to-eye with him, just like they'd done when they'd left Jarrod's house. "What's so funny, you little bitch?"

His face a mess of bruises and lacerations, blood running and mingling into the cracks of his armour, Wreav's sagging face reformed into that familiar smirk. The one that was as good as an alarm bell, long before Wrex realised what the danger was. With a sudden burst of agility Wreav jumped up and gripped Wrex in an embrace that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with malice.

"You missed something." A loud beep.

With a metallic shriek, the razor-edged barbs and spikes on Wreav's armour blasted off the metal surface and went spinning in all directions. Some went flying until they arced low into the sandy ground; others ricocheted off rocks and spun like airborne death. A few even hit the spectators, and these cried out in shock as they either pinged harmlessly off hardened skin or reached a soft part and stuck fast. One female staggered, a warped spike of metal buried in her shoulder, and a dozen males rushed to lend assistance.

Wrex threw his head back as a raw scream ripped past his throat and into the air. It felt like someone had thrust white-hot spearheads through his armour and into his stomach. Tearing himself savagely away from Wreav, he staggered backwards to find that no less than seven of the barbs had lodged deep inside his chestplate, with a few more scattered here and there. Already, blood the colour of amber was starting to well up and spill down the front of his armour. Hands scrabbled at the front of his chestplate, trying to rip it off so he could assess the damage.

A sonorous boom went up, and all activity ceased. Those not attending to injuries fell silent and watched warily. Krogan parted to let Jarrod and the shaman through.

Wrex watched his father approach, though his mind was still in a fog of pain. Not to mention whatever funk had come over him _before _Wreav unleashed his little trick. The bastard was now standing well back, a monstrous set of bruises and lacerations standing out on his face but not quite doing enough to prevent the smirk plastered all over his face. Wrex was tempted to go for him right now, but restrained himself. The shaman would have his hide, to say nothing of Jarrod.

The Urdnot chieftain's eyes widened as he saw the extent of the damage done to Wrex's armour. Entire segments of the chestplate were now ripped to shreds and curling away, like remnants of cruiser armour plating after a battle. The flesh that was visible through these rents was horrifically mangled. Even a hit from a U-67 Caldera or any of their nastier weapons designed to rip their target's flesh wasn't as bad as this. Then again, that weapon and its ilk were used at considerable range, and this armour had been pressed right up against Wrex's when it went off.

"Shaman! Attend!" His voice was tense. Things had, once again, become complicated. As the crowd recovered from the shock of the surprise attack, many began to raise their voices in angry protest. Some shouted that Wreav should be disqualified immediately; others snarled their disagreement and urged Jarrod to continue the fight. Others just roared or spouted curses into the air. Kibera, who had narrowly missed being impaled by one of the projectiles, was watching her injured sister being treated, eyes narrowed but trembling.

Dutifully, the shaman inspected Wrex's wounds. As he swayed, the old krogan growled and smacked his leg lightly, taking care not to strike the wound already there. "Stay still, damnit. Don't soften now."

Wrex nodded crisply. "Yes, shaman." He knew his duty, and that was to stand stoic and still, until the shaman decided. The pain was still incredible, but the fabled krogan body regeneration had started kicking in already. His body quietly dispersed pain-killing endorphins, and the worst of the wounds became stinging gashes. He exhaled heavily.

After a few minutes of quick-and-dirty triage, the shaman straightened and said heavily, "Nothing critical was hit, but he stands to lose a lot of blood should he continue. Already, he has lost much." The orange blood kept seeping out of the cracks in his armour, puddling on the ground.

Jarrod grunted and folded his arms. "You're hit bad, son. But-"

"I know, "Wrex said quickly, cutting in before his father could speak. "I said I'd fight him with the armour. That's what I'll do. We're not finished here." He slammed his fists together, and his father and the shaman nodded in approval.

Wreav wasn't nearly as satisfied with this. "This is ridiculous! He's in no shape to fight, I made sure of that." He croaked a laugh through his beaten face, before continuing in a grating voice, "Chieftain, Shaman, it's no longer a fair fight, it's obvious to anyone-"

He shut up as both of the old krogan rounded on him, faces like thunder. "Not fair?" Jarrod spat, advancing on Wreav. "Not _fair_? Listen, you pyjak fucker, when I throw you a bone, I don't want to hear how quickly you get sick of it, clear? You just be fucking glad you were allowed to tote that piece of junk into this fight, and have your little trick to boot! Unless you want me to pretty your face up some more, is that _understood?" _

The shaman was quick to back Jarrod up; not because he was a toady, but because he'd been doing this for longer than anyone and in the circle, the shaman's word was fucking law. "The chieftain speaks correctly, Urdnot Wreav. You have no right to decide when this fight ends. If you are so eager to see it finish, then fight on, and fight hard! Long live Clan Urdnot!" He made the sign.

"Long live!" they both shouted back, doing the same. Jarrod gave Wrex the barest of nods, and left. Despite all the years of his father letting him down time and again, that stung him a little. But that was the least of his worries. The shaman brought them both in again, and raised his voice to a yell. "The fight continues! Begin!" He withdrew quickly.

Breathing heavily, Wrex put his fists up and started circling Wreav, who still looked like he was struggling to come to terms with what was happening. He knew that look all too well. _You had your little plan. It fell apart. The world's moving too fast and you're stumbling, trying to catch up. _He'd have this fight sown up in no time at all. Maybe he was losing blood at a fearsome rate (he wiped his gauntlets on his greaves, the last thing he needed was the bastard slipping out of his grip), but his opponent didn't look so hot either. Hell, with all the damage he'd done to his face, he might even have internal damage. One could hope.

For his part, Wreav hunched his shoulders and kicked up a little dust, and even spat out a tooth. "This is it, Wrex. I'm going to win today. Accept it."

Wrex snorted. "I wouldn't accept if you told me the sky was cloudy." And he moved forward, still fast on his feet.

He aimed a left hook at his face, but he sidestepped and wrenched his arm into a lock. _Again? Fucker. Beddak was right. _Flattening his other arm against his chest, he let all his weight fall to the ground. Wreav was krogan, and still clung on, but now that Wrex was on the ground the angle was awkward. Taking advantage of this, he slammed a foot into the back of Wreav's knee. He fell with a grunt, and Wrex crunched his shoulder into his face. Cursing, the son of Drachus rolled back, putting some distance between them.

Wrex charged at him, but at the last moment Wreav planted one foot down and leaped straight at him. Momentum gone, Wrex was unable to defend himself against the barrage of punches that followed. He felt a rib snap beneath the armour and started dipping low, trying to avoid taking any more hits to that area. Putting one arm up in a guard, he chanced a look behind him and saw a decent-sized boulder only a few paces away. He paid for that with a glancing blow to the skull, but he'd gotten an idea. He pretended to stagger, and held out one hand in supplication. "Please-"

He felt slightly ashamed-that trick wouldn't have fooled a ten-year old krogan. Only half-bloods and cowards would have tried to beg for mercy, and Wrex was neither. But Wreav only saw an opponent nearing defeat, and lurched forward with a shot-eating grin and a sloppy punch, not holding back.

Wrex seized his arm in both hands, dropped to one knee and pivoted to the left. Yanking him around with a grunt, he sent Wreav tumbling into the boulder, cracking his head on it. He lay sprawled on the rock, groaning. His face was starting to look pretty fucking ugly. _Well, more fucking ugly. _He moved forward, hopefully to kick the fool into submission, but Wreav came up with a hunk of rock and aimed it with unerring accuracy. It didn't hurt much, but it broke into fragments and blinded him. By the time the dust cleared, Wreav was back up again. Spitting blood, Wrex plodded forward again.

Under the merciless eye of Aralakh, surrounded by survivors of the most inhospitable planet in the galaxy and sworn to give no quarter, the sons of Urdnot fought on, fought hard and didn't back down.

********************************************************

Beddak had since moved, onto a low ledge overlooking the circle. Behind him, a black hole yawned. If one disappeared into it, and crawled for long enough, they would find themselves emerging onto the Farru'vat plains, through a crevice underneath a rockpile. All of ten minutes, and he'd be away. Even if an Urdnot patrol found him, the worst they'd do was give him a thrashing and leave him there.

It was clean. It was quiet. It made him sick to his stomach.

His rifle felt like a column of fire, burning. He had to keep it in his hand-if he moved it anywhere else, he risked having the light of Aralakh reflect off it and give away his position. This fight was already hip-deep in controversy and strife, and Wreav's little parlour trick with the armour had only exacerbated the tension. The only thing Jarrod would be content with from this point onward would be a fair, decisive and honourable outcome. It was his job to ensure it didn't happen.

The bullet would be taking effect very soon. It had been laced with a mild sedative, one that would take effect overtime. Lethargy, sudden fatigue and sluggishness would work their magic. Assuming Wreav wasn't good enough to take Wrex down with that little advantage-and it was starting to look that way, as he watched Jarrod's son pulp his face-he had one more bullet with him. Actually, it was more of a needle, clad in a heatsink casing that would dissolve after being exposed to air for just under a second. It would leave no trace, no way for Jarrod or anyone else to root out a culprit. The needle contained forty milligrams of benzodiazepine, enough to drop a fully-matured krogan in about a minute. For a youngblood like Wrex, it would be closer to thirty seconds. It had to look natural, as natural as possible. The needle had been a bitch to acquire, along with the benzodiazepine, but Thurak had made it quite clear what would happen to him if he didn't succeed in helping Wreav win the fight. A lightened wallet would be the least of his troubles.

Lying flat, still wishing he could move, either just to dispel the numbness or to _really _move and leave this entire sordid business behind, Beddak watched silently, waiting for his moment to arrive. Or maybe it wouldn't. Not that it mattered either way. The damage had been done. His soul was lost. He was truly a _krei'dur, _now.

**********************************************************

Nearly an hour had passed. The shouts and hollers of the crowd had dulled down now, reduced to the occasional war-cry which passed unheeded by the usually-baying hordes of krogan warriors. Now, everyone present was absolutely focused on the contest. The basin echoed with the scuffles and grunts of the Urdnot youths. The females, clad in their dark colours and hooded garments, had taken on an eerie cast, their amber eyes the only things visible. Since the wounding of one of their own, they were given a wide berth. All the males feared the curses and haints that a wrathful female could unleash when vexed.

The tension was like a ship waiting to discharge its mass effect core. It hung languidly, as if everything was as normal. But underneath, there ran a current of anticipation of anticipation and even fear. Soon an explosion would occur, and none would be left unscathed. Even the most dim-witted males present knew the truth of this, having experienced it themselves in countless battles. Such a concept they called _nar'zuhl feydosh: _the sword that waits. It would fall soon.

Wrex had suffered two more broken ribs, a shattered right knee-cap and his wounds had continued to gush blood. The ground was covered in orange stains, and his armour could have been seen on a moonless night for miles. More than that, he was waging another battle, one against his own body. Every time that creeping ache started coiling around his limbs, he fought it off, but only barely. It was getting more persistent with every passing minute. That bullet must have been laced. _When I'm done here, I'm going to go find Griduk's body and take a massive shit on it. Then I'm going to give it to the Weyrloc to eat. Or the Jorgal to fuck. Something for everyone there. _The Weyrloc were unabashed cannibals, but the Jorgal strenuously denied harbouring necrophiliacs. Still, like a youngling who shat themselves in the training grounds, they were never allowed to forget a one-time incident.

Still, he was doing a lot better than Wreav. As well as the beating he'd given his face, and countless bruises and abrasions, he was definitely carrying some internal damage, around his sternum. Likely one or even two of his lungs had collapsed. That wouldn't be enough to stop him, but it would make him feel like a titanium band was clenching around his chest. In a few days his body would regenerate them, but for now, he was walking wounded. Wrex had made sure to aim for that spot with every blow. Even from here, his breath was strangled enough to sound like a dying Tomkah engine.

Both of them were nearly spent, energies drained and wounds taking their toll. Usually the crowd would be spurning them on, providing them with that last ounce of drive and strength, but they had gone quiet. Wrex would have to win this bout on his own.

Wreav bounced on the balls of his feet, jinking left and right, looking for an opening. The past five times he'd tried to get in a heavy blow Wrex had fended him off easily and jabbed him in the chest, further aggravating his injury. But it wouldn't be enough for a knockout. Suddenly he ducked his head low and charged with a bellow, crest like a battering ram.

Wrex contemplated whether or not to absorb the charge head on and seize hold of Wreav's arms, or try to dodge it and set upon him as he recovered. By the time he'd decided-

His breath was punched out of him as Wreav careered into him like a larval thresher maw-

-it was too late.

Fumbling, he tried to stay upright, but he was knocked to the ground with a savage backhand from Wreav. Coughing up blood and dust, he tried to roll to one side, but Wreav straddled him and he was pinned. He snarled, spat up into the face of his enemy-what other defiance could he show at this juncture? "Fuck you, Wreav. Call yourself a krogan? You're a piss-stain on the name of Urdnot-"

A punch to the mouth rattled his jaw. "Shut your damned mouth, you son of a bitch!" he hissed. "Actually, don't. Leave it open, so everyone here'll hear you scream when I kill you!"

"Kill me? You couldn't kill a varren whelp with a fucking dreadnaught." He intercepted another punch, managed to twist it and snap one of Wreav's fingers. "You break so easily, son of Drachus. Mother of fuck-knows-what-"

Wreav hauled him up, and placed his ruin of a face against Wrex's. "You did me a favour. You know that? My mother killed herself, or so my father told me. The females, they think they keep every fucking secret under the sun, but he found out. And that just proves what every krogan knows. The males are the ones who rule here, and we have the right. The females are just chattel, every one of them, especially that bitch who you keep company with, Parula-"

Wrex headbutted him furiously between the eyes, eliciting a snort of agony. But the bastard held firm. "My father's death only means that he was weak, and stupid. Do _I _look weak and stupid?" He snorted again, this time in laughter. "You've underestimated me, Wrex, and rest assured, this is just the first time of many. One day soon, you'll be licking my boots and eating my shit-"

_Does this cunt ever shut up? _Part of him wanted him to just hit him so he could slip into unconsciousness. Anything to escape his whining. But at the same time, he felt a strange, new fount of power building beneath his skin. It felt…invigorating. Like someone had filled his veins with liquid fire. Yet for all that, he still couldn't shake off this bastard. Was he just hallucinating it? He couldn't tell. Everything felt woozy, indistinct, vague. The only sure things were that Wreav had him dead to rights, and he was about to lose. _No. Can't let that happen._

Wreav was drawing back his fist, saying something, mouth moving in his trademark sneer. Whatever. Words didn't matter. This was the circle, where the only thing that mattered was fist and muscle. The circle, where the weak lost and the strong prevailed. The circle, where he had never lost. The circle…where he would not lose. Never. Not to this _ailing, turd-brained fuckwit!_

NEVER!

And that effervescent, elusive feeling in his veins surged, took form, ached to be released from his hands. Everything seemed to slow down. If this was happening beyond him, Wreav hadn't seemed to notice. All he did was laugh, a low, mocking bray-

Wrex's fists shot up, and sent the bastard flying at least twenty metres back, like a shit-coloured boulder. He thudded to the turf like an unexploded artillery shell, stunned.

For his part, the son of Jarrod got up, but still on all fours, panting out his breaths. And for a second-only a second-he could have sworn his bloodied fists were mantled in a blue, swirling aura. Then he blinked, and it was all gone. So was the inexplicable surge of powerful, _terrible_ energy he'd felt. He looked around. The wind still hissed over the sand. The crowd stood still, like idols in a ruined temple. Wrex felt detached from the present, as if his bonds on reality were becoming thinner by the moment. He wanted to cut the tether, float away on ethereal currents, never return-

Then he refocused. Wreav. He was finished now. He was getting up, but a good kick or two to the head would see him finished. It was over. Any second now, and Wrex would be the undisputed heir of Clan Urdnot. He could taste it-

Wrex fell to the dirt, eyes slamming shut before he even hit the ground.

*****************************************************

Beddak had been prepping his rifle to fire when he saw Wrex topple over like an obelisk. A few seconds of silence followed, then the crowd burst into vociferous, angry shouting. The result had come, yet none were satisfied with it. Once again, the krogan were at each other's throats. Fights broke out, and the females were quickly hurried out of the basin. Jarrod and the shaman ran out to the arena, to assess what the hell had happened. They had all been sure of Wrex's last-minute victory. Only now…

Beddak knew his fellow krogan well. To many of them, the fight had been a joke. Now it had proved to be a deadly one indeed. Oh, Wreav might have won, technically, but nobody here was convinced of that. But, as he swept the brawling crowd, he counted a little over a hundred. The population of the Urdnot camp was twenty times that, and once rumour and hearsay started, it would be impossible to stop. Wreav had beaten Wrex, against all odds. The fact that those odds were grossly tipped in his favour would not matter.

It would have to be enough for Thurak, anyway. His job here was done. Now to see what would happen from here.

There was, of course, one detail he could let the Jorgal chieftain in on. The strange energy he'd seen playing over Wrex's hands when he sent Wreav spinning through the air like a frisbee. If he didn't know better, he'd have said it was a-

He frowned, berated himself. Wrex would have enough to deal with in the days to come. He would not compound his friend's problems by leaking more information to the enemy-_Wrex's _enemy. Everyone was his enemy. He just happened to work for those who despised others more.

So he resolved to say nothing. A secret advantage could turn the tables in any fight. As he'd proven today…

He broke the stock of his rifle into two pieces, slotted them into tubes on his back, and wriggled into the cave.


	6. Chapter 6

_I remember my grandfather telling me, a long time ago, about the first biotic krogan. He used to cackle about how they were either worshipped as demi-gods or ripped apart like rabid varren, but either way you sliced it they were feared and hated. Two sides of the same piece of shit, that was his favourite phrase. It was the uplift, you know-the Shroud was an alright piece of tech, I'll admit, but fuck knows what else those salarian motherfuckers pumped into our atmosphere to make those freaks of nature. No, I don't give two shits what the asari say: biotics are a coward's weapon. They aren't the way of the krogan, and I'll have none of them in my clan. That I promise you, my dear.  
_-Urdnot Jarrod to Urdnot Tarisa

"Hey! When are you gonna let me out of here already?" Wrex was on his feet, eyes cast skyward.

A bucket of something (it looked and smelled like nightsoil) cascaded down from a bucket overhead and slopped down his right arm. It was followed up by a gob of spittle and a harsh laugh. "Yer gonna stay down there till yer daddy gives the say-so! And that's the way it is my son, ho yes, that's the way it is!"

He scowled at the krogan he couldn't see. Only the muddy walls of the pit made themselves available to his eyes. That, and the dusty brown-and-yellow of the sky above. "That the way it is, then?"

"Yup! That's the way it is!"

He reached up, worked a scale loose from his crest and threw it up to the surface. It shone a dull red for a moment in the light before disappearing. "On that, we can agree!" The throwing down of a crest-scale was an age-old challenge among the krogan, as literally having a big head was a sign of dominance on Tuchanka. Put plainly, it meant that you wanted to tear out the other person's throat. With your thumbs.

There was no reply, just the sound of someone moving away at a fast pace. Wrex sneered to himself, and settled back down to sit, back against the wall and fists in his lap. Despite the events of the past day or so, there was still some delight to be had for scaring the shit out of cretins who were "keeping an eye on him", so to speak. Escape was impossible, but Wrex could have handled the drudges who policed the pits with both arms tied behind his back.

_That might just be possible. _His hands, ensorcelled with a blue glow, sending Wreav flying...A chill ran up his spine as he considered the implications, and he frowned ferociously. Doubtless, there was a good explanation for it. The thought that he might be one of _them _was beyond the pale. Things were bad enough as they stood now. He didn't need to compound them by making himself an outcast.

So he put it in the back of his mind, as he usually did, and focused on the more immediate problem: what would happen to him once Jarrod yanked his thumb from his ass and remembered he was down here, still kicking and a major pain in the ass? He briefly considered the possibility of Jarrod ordering a hit, and shook his head. Jarrod's legacy was still more important to him, and Wrex was still a damn good warrior. People would talk, even-no, especially-if Jarrod spun some bullshit about succumbing to his wounds. He glanced down, and saw the angry red lines of the barbs from Wreav's armour. Raw, but healing. _Thank you, genetic accelerated regeneration. _

So, no. He'd be safe, from his father at least.

That was little comfort, though, because practically half of the camp would have good reason to want to see him dead. Wreav, his cronies, the friends of Drachus, that bitch Kibera...hell, if word of this got out to any of the other settlements, maybe some shit-grinning small-time tyrant warlord or chieftain would want to get in on the action. Knives in the dark. Cut and run. Power plays. Damn, but he was sick of it.

As much as he hated the situation at hand, it was simple. He had to assume that, at present, popular opinion was against him. There was a big divide between fairness and allegiance, he knew. Even those that thought Wreav hadn't deserved to win wouldn't take his side if things came to a head. Krogan loved to fight, it was true, but they preferred to have only one opponent. The fight had torn the status quo to shreds, and no-one was safe in their beliefs. The fight would have become a story, and stories loved to transform into something more.

So, if everyone (or near enough to be everyone) was gunning for him, he would have to trust no-one. He briefly thought of Parula, felt a stab of guilt, but then realised that the best thing would be to avoid her as well. The old woman had nothing to do with this, and if she got hurt Wrex wasn't sure he'd be able to live with himself. The thought he'd be able to spare at least one friend the carnage that he knew was coming (knew it from the feeling in his crest, his quad, practically everywhere on his body that signalled danger) was comforting.

Speaking of friends. _Beddak._ He hadn't seen him since before the fight. Had he truly made good on his word, and come to see the fight? He would have been watching from somewhere concealed, though, not wanting to rouse Jarrod's ire or that of the shaman. Or the whole damn camp, for that matter. He would've seen what happened.

In fact, it was strange that he hadn't already-

The sound of someone flinging themselves down close to the hole. "Wrex! It's Beddak!" Two yellow eyes peered down at him. His face was hooded.

He bit back the laugh at this good fortune, and craned his neck upwards. "Your timing is almost as good as your aim, Beddak!"

Beddak laughed, and maybe it was the fact he was pressed to the ground, but it sounded strained. "I got over here as soon as it was safe. How are you faring?"

"What do you think? I've been down here for hours now." He picked at a grimy piece of stone in the pit wall, and flicked it away contemptuously. "No word from Jarrod, I take it?"

His friend shook his head slightly. "No activity at all. In all honesty, it looks like more or less a normal day in the camp. Wreav is still in the Harirut cave, but he'll be out in a day or so. One tough bastard-though you're tougher, of course. Your father's still in talks with Drachus' former lackies and enemies, but they're doing that down below, in the old fallout shelters. Not enough ways in and out of that place for me to eavesdrop." He paused, and said quietly, "I'm sorry, Wrex-"

He cut across his friend, in no mood for pity. "Not half as sorry as Wreav will be when I'm out of here. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Beddak sighed. "Like I said, your dad's playing it pretty close to the chest. Hell, you of all people know what the politics in this clan are like. They could be down there for days."

"And so will I if the old fart doesn't get his shit together!" Wrex flared, then leaned his back against the pit wall. "Can't you spring me out of here?" That would technically be breaking his father's law, but he figured that by this time tried and true convention had gone to Aralakh. He'd be damned if he'd stay in this hole a moment longer than he had to.

"Not a chance. It was a bastard getting over here to see you. 'Sides, it's not like you're a youngblood pup or anything, Wrex, you're not exactly a lightweight!" They both shared a small chuckle over this. You had to appreciate the small things in the darkest of times, his mother had always said. Even when you were in a pit stinking of shit, that held true.

Suddenly Beddak swore, a stream of curses that were a mishmash of several clan tongues. _Showing your bumpkin roots again, eh Beddak? _Wrex thought fondly.

"Patrol's on its way over. I have to go. Catch!" A small object fell into the pit, and Wrex stooped to pick it up. Wiping the slime off it, he saw it was an M-6 Carnifex pistol. Small, but it packed a hell of a punch. "This looks familiar..."

"It should, "Beddak said wryly. "I stole it from Wreav's inventory when he arrived for treatment. Payback's gotta start somewhere, right?"

Wrex barked a laugh, then quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. Sound could carry far, even in a pit. "You're a hell of a thief, Beddak. I'll be sure to use this if anyone comes calling." He slid it into a holster on his hip. Turning his head upwards, his voice went low. "I appreciate this, _fenvak. _Brother. I wouldn't have gotten this far without you." A little ironic, being where he was, but he meant every word.

Another awkward pause like before, and Beddak's voice, as if far away, muttering in reply. "No, I suppose not." The sound of shifting stones, and the sound of hands patting down armour. "I'm sorry, Wrex, but I can't stay any longer. Good luck." The sound of footsteps, and he was gone. Soon after, the typical sound of a pit-patrol, rowdy and discontent, filled the air. Beddak would have gotten away safely, otherwise the sound of rifle discharge would have added to the symphony.

Wrex settled back into his hole, drew his legs up underneath him and shut his eyes. He had a loaded gun, information and rapidly-healing wounds. This was as positive as things were going to get for now. So in the meantime, he would do his battered body a favour, and get some rest.

The sun made its slow trip towards the opposite horizon. The shadows began to lengthen. The shouting and grumbling of the other krogan nearby became ever louder as a wind-blast kicked up, coming from the Farru'vat Plains. Wrex slept through it all. But his new pistol remained in his hand, and his finger remained on the trigger.

************************************************** *******

A gurgling wheeze and a feeble attempt at last words, before he kicked out his last few movements and went limp. The scout fell to the cold metal floor, eyes glazing over in death. His hands twitched as his body's nervous system refused to face the inevitable. The scout's soul had gone to the Void; the body was slow to catch up. As for the late krogan's mind, well, that was slower than both combined. If it had not been, he might have had the smarts to run, instead of reporting back here to embrace his failure.

_But certainly not the guts._

The Void was the common krogan term for whatever realm lay beyond death. A few clans had different terms for it, courtesy of rough dialects. Weyrloc called it Reclamation, as Tuchanka had spawned them and was merely taking them back. Jurdon called it _sormont'ul, _Everywhere and Nowhere, Hailot called it Ashmaker. But the Jorgal had their own term, one that was more fitting than these amateurish appellations. _Lesh'narud. _The Grasping Dark. It came for you where and when you couldn't fight back. And it refused to let go.

A stubborn thing, death. _However_, thought Jorgal Thurak as he watched his men move the corpse out of the low-ceilinged room, _there are many others that could give it a run for its money. _One of them, a premier example and an increasing threat to his designs, was Urdnot Wrex.

Though the spies he had in the Urdnot camp were few, krogan society was such that many rumours had already reached his ears. Such things grew in the telling, and krogan loved to gossip when it came to fights, but they all drew one similar conclusion: that the fight hadn't ended as simply as he'd hoped. As he'd _intended. _By the fucking ancestors, he'd paid good money for an easy result. He was tempted to rip out the _krei'dur's _spine on general principle.

But the craven had proven himself a useful tool in getting close to the Urdnot heir, and Wreav _had _won the fight. This was not a sign of Thurak's mercy, merely his pragmatism. Even a broken-down wreck of a krogan could have a part to play in his endgame.

So for what felt like the tenth time that day, he restrained the instinctive urge to yank out his pistol as soon as that door opened. He had instructed no-one to disturb him but the outcast. If someone else was fool enough to step through that door, it would be too damned bad.

Unfortunately, even this similar pleasure would be denied him, if he hoped to have enough men to ensure a quick and (relatively) bloodless takeover of Urdnot. Currently, Clan Jorgal had a sizeable complement, but Urdnot's was bigger, and had better fighters to boot. Out there, he would brag about his clan's supremacy, but facts were facts. And he didn't want to take any chances. Hiring Blood Pack mercs was already a risky move, especially since the last few who had made a pathetic attempt at infiltrating the enemy camp had been found by Urdnot Jarrod.

By the dead, how he hated that bastard. A smirking old relic who had found himself superior on this dirtball and having done nothing to earn it. Now Jarrod's father, _he'd _been the real terror. He'd massacred and executed his way to power, whereas Jarrod sat on his fat ass and claimed himself the ruler of ages. Typical fucking krogan warlord, all lord and no fucking war. Well, Thurak was set to change all that, and it would be bloody as fuck-

The door creaked on rusty hinges, and swung inward. The _krei'dur _stumbled in, shoved in by his guards outside the door. A purple bump on his right cheek evidenced that they'd given him their own person hello, rifle butt-style. He ducked his head hastily in a show of subservience. "Warlord Thurak, I am come."

"No shit you are; there's a stink in here that wasn't before." Thurak cast his eyes about for a flask he'd put down earlier and found it. Swigging it briefly, he wiped his mouth and pointed to a chair. "Sit. Now."

His pet merc did as he was told, slumping down into it with all the enthusiasm of an old lag who couldn't go to the female camp anymore. Thurak eyed him derisively, voice heavy with contempt. "What's up your ass, scum? All that money weighing down in your pocket?" He stepped closer. "Getting second thoughts about our arrangement?"

The _krei'dur _looked up at him, looking small, and shook his head. "No, Thurak. You..." He swallowed, and looked away. "You know me. I get paid to do a job. Always been that way, always will be. I'm good for it."

"Uh-huh." Thurak nodded. He made to walk away, then lunged forward, inches away from the _krei'dur's _face. "Listen to me carefully, you whimpering shit. This operation is a scale away from coming to fruition, and I need _everyone _involved to be _focused! _That even includes a worthless son-of-a-whore such as yourself, and if you jeopardise it, well..." He leaned back. "I don't have to tell you by now, do I? You've heard it enough times, from me and everyone else that wants you _dead."_

A glum nod.

"Good." He backhanded him across the face, rocking him backwards out of the chair and onto the floor. "Get up, fuckstick. You have new orders. But first, your report."

Groggily, the clanless got up, and stood stiffly at attention. A new gash had opened up on his face, but he didn't seem to notice. _And why would he, Kalros knows he's received enough from me._

"The fight between Wrex and Wreav. Tell me what happened. And make it a better account than what my scouts managed to tell me, before I choked their lives out."

Thurak wasn't ignorant of the rumours, and the clanless knew it, but spoke anyway. "Wreav brought anti-rachni armour to the fight, there was a...disagreement. I did my part of the job, but Wrex allowed the use of the armour anyway." Thurak nodded in grudging approval. "They fought. Wrex had the upper hand, but then Wreav used some sort of springrazor function built into the armour, I don't know." The Jorgal frowned; now _that _hadn't reached his ears. The armouries of Urdnot stretched back far indeed. "Wrex was badly wounded, but he kept fighting. By then, the bullet was taking effect. But Wreav couldn't take him down. Again and again, Wrex foiled the odds." Admiration for his friend entered his voice.

Thurak folded his arms ominously. "Keep going."

"I thought-"he swallowed, and kept going-"I thought I would have to use the second round of sedative. The battle was…endless. Then Wreav got lucky, after Wrex made a mistake-"

The Jorgal chief laughed derisively. "Hurts to say that, doesn't it? Your only friend losing to his inferior, and all because of you. He would've one if it weren't for you. But that's the way the varren roasts, isn't it?"

Beddak's eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched, but he responded in a moderate tone. 'You paid me."

With false joviality, Thurak slapped him lightly across the face. "That I did, that I did. Then what happened?"

The _krei'dur _shrugged dully. "About what you'd expect. The first sedative kicked in, though it looked like Wrex was about to win. Next thing I know, Wrex is unconscious and Wreav wins by default. Then the entire fucking clan is in an uproar." He inhaled sharply, and looked down at his feet. "That's my report."

Thurak idly worked a scale loose from his crest. "That simple, huh?"

"Yes, Warlord Thurak. That is what happened." His voice didn't quaver, but what kind of proof was that?

"I believe you." Beddak looked up in surprise, then twitched as Thurak swept closer again. "If you lied to me, I'd dip your quad into a nuclear reactor. And for all your faults, _krei'dur, _you aren't that stupid. So I believe you." The scum visibly relaxed, and the warlord moved back to the other side of the table, fingers drumming loudly and face screwed up in concentration.

After about a minute of uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by Thurak's tapping, the Jorgal chieftain nodded tersely. "Right. We're moving ahead of schedule."

The outcast shit jerked his head to face Thurak, face incredulous. "A-already?"

"Yes, shithead, already." He pulled out his pistol, and started checking the components. "Events are proceeding at a faster pace than I would have preferred, so we must keep up if we hope to pull this off. That son of Jarrod isn't just a pain in the ass, he's an unknown quantity. So far he's been throwing my plans off-not enough to defeat us, but enough to make it hurt. Not to mention he'll be getting closer and closer to discovering there's a conspiracy at work. Grasping dark, he already suspects something's up. He told you himself."

Beddak coughed and muttered something, or nothing. Thurak ignored it.

"Fortunately, he doesn't realise the scale of what we intend. And as of-"he looked at a rusted clock on the wall-"tomorrow night, he'll be too dead to realise it." He sniggered, then stopped. All traces of amusement left his face. "That is where you come in."

Nothing but a sullen gaze, a solemn nod. _Good. _The bastard was learning to keep his mouth shut and his loyalties rigid.

"By tomorrow, Jarrod will likely have let Wrex out of the pits-if not, spring him yourself. When night falls, invite him out to…" He booted up a rough map of the Urdnot camp on his omni-tool, and grunted. "Here. Just beyond the youth barracks. They'll be too busy carousing and drinking to give a fuck what's outside. Not to mention I have contingency plans to keep them out of trouble."

Beddak did not ask what these _other tricks _were, merely nodded. "And then, lord?"

"You tell him you have something of great importance to tell him, something that threatens the future of Clan Urdnot. Meet him face to face: he will be sure to trust you then. After that, well, I don't really care what you do. Put a spanner through his eye if you want. Just make sure he dies. Understood?"

The clanless did not reply right away, and the chieftain pounced on tis right away. Seizing him in a headlock, he jammed the pistol against his head. "I said, _am I understood? _If you don't, then by all means, tell me right now and we can fucking _end this!" _The last part of the sentence was screamed right into his auditory canal, and it reverberated off the walls. The echo was long in the dying.

Beddak nodded rapidly, chin a blur. "Yes, yes, I understand it, I'll do it! Wrex will die, you have my word!"

"Excellent." He released Beddak from his stranglehold, and put the pistol away. "Once you have completed that, move quickly to Jarrod's seat. Take him if you can as well-if not, then little matter. Only that I will be halving your payment once the job is finished." He smiled cruelly as he saw the scum's crestfallen face, quickly swallowed up by blank obeisance. He was in control here, and the _krei'dur _would have to accept that. If he hadn't already.

"We are very close to the end now, little _krei'dur." _He took another draught from his flask and shot his deadliest glare at Beddak. "Don't. Fuck. It. Up."

"No, warlord." His voice was ashes.

"See to it that you don't." He raised his voice. "Some assistance here!"

Two burly Jorgal enforcers entered the room, guns up. Thurak motioned for them to put them away, and spoke casually. "Have this one taken up to the main street and chain him there for six hours. Let all of this clan see what it means to be clanless. Alone, and covered in varren shit."

The Jorgal laughed gaily, while Beddak looked straight ahead stoically. _The bastard knows how to take punishment, I'll give him that. _The guards grabbed Beddak's arms and shoved him roughly out of the room. Thurak heaved a contented sigh. Now that was over, there was one other matter to attend to, if all was to go well.

The clanless moron had not told the entire truth. Thurak had seen it in his eyes. The fool had thought he'd outwitted the Jorgal chieftain. A mistake he would regret.

He accessed his omni-tool, and typed a quick message. _Meet me down here-Thurak. _He sat down and waited. Minutes ticked by.

Eventually, the door creaked as someone knocked. "Enter."

The hinges squealed again (_Aralakh-fucking-damnit someone needs to oil those_) and five korgan stepped into the room, spreading out into a rough line. Unlike the usual Jorgal warriors, who wore bright red armour, these were, to a krogan, clad in black. Face-masks, originally intended for use in hazardous environments, concealed their features. The armour was also bereft of the usual trinkets and adornments of krogan fighters-just svelte black. _Their work is done outside of such things._

Thurak nodded approvingly at the display. "You _dau'drin_ still know how to make an impression, my son."

The krogan in the centre stepped forward, and, placing fingers to the gap where his helmet met his armour, prised it away. A relatively unscarred face, with green eyes, with a mouth that quirked into a smug smile. "We do have a reputation to maintain, father."

Barking a laugh, the Jorgal chieftain rose and brought the new arrival into a rough embrace. "Of course. And who else would I choose to bring Jorgal to the forefront of glory, than you and yours?"

The krogan's eyes widened, and those around him shot each other glances, faces still undiscernible. "Our time has come, then? To take what is ours? You have talked of it so often, father-"

"I have! And yes, our time has come!" Thurak raised his voice slightly, then moderated his tone. His son was devout, certainly, but he had a tendency to get carried away. "The clanless one has brought us this opportunity, but I cannot entrust such sensitive matters to him alone. You and your warriors will be paving the way for our takeover of Urdnot. Tomorrow night, you shed blood in the name of our future, and in the name of our clan!"

The five black-armoured krogan titled their heads back and roared their enthusiasm, fists clashing against their breastplates. Once the ferocious din had died down, the chieftain tapped his omni-tool and a small orange beam flashed across to his son's own omni-tool. "All the details are contained therein. Speak of this to no-one else, do you hear?"

They all nodded in unison, and saluted. Thurak pointed to the door, and slowly they filed out. Before his son could exit, he called out. "Korvus, a moment."

Korvus about-faced and prostrated himself before his father. "Your command, chieftain?"

"Rise, "he said impatiently. "No need to stand on ceremony here." Once his son had done so, he whistled through his teeth. "There have been reports…surrounding the bout between Wrex and Wreav. Stories that Wrex may possess…unnatural powers. What do you think?"

Korvus shrugged calmly. "Powers or no, he is simply one krogan, and his skills cannot compare to ours. The clanless will kill him, and if not, we shall make short work of him. On the blood of my mother, I swear-"

"I don't need you swearing by your mother!" Thurak shouted suddenly, grabbing Korvus by the shoulders. "She was an Urdnot whore and she deserves to be forgotten! Understand me?" _Fuck, what is his obsession with his past? Learn to leave it alone!_

Korvus's chin trembled, but he nodded gravely. "I do, father. I will never mention her again."

The chieftain exhaled, and patted his shoulder. "Good. Good. Go now, son, and prepare for tomorrow night. Tomorrow, we take power and bring a new age to Jorgal. We must be ready."

"Of course, father." Korvus left quietly, shutting the door behind him.

Now alone, Thurak sat back down again, mind still ticking over. The _krei'dur _ was ready. The _dau'drin _were ready. His warriors were raring to take Urdnot and crush it in their jaws. Jarrod, Wrex, Wreav-they would all die.

Nonetheless, he would only feel safe after it was all over. _Safe from who? _He would not admit the answer, but it was there. Hanging over his head, like a sword.

Tomorrow night could not arrive soon enough.

__

__


End file.
